


no need to panic

by silverdragons33



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AND THEY WERE FLATMATES, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Asian Pansy Parkinson, Attempted Murder, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Bisexual Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, Death Eaters, Drarry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Idiots in Love, Living Together, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Harry, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Pining Draco Malfoy, Protective Draco Malfoy, Sappy, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, as in very very sappy, because I adore them, the bronze trio with which I mean Pansy Draco and Blaise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 129,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26580418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverdragons33/pseuds/silverdragons33
Summary: Apparently, in the wizarding world, having a predestined soulmate is completely normal.Honestly, Harry really shouldn’t be surprised anymore; after all, he’s been living almost nine years in the peculiar, sometimes downright nonsensical world of witches and wizards, of magic and legendary creatures, having come across his fair share of crazy both during his years at Hogwarts and afterwards in his job as an Auror. And so, when his twentieth birthday arrives and a single letter appears on his right wrist, it honestly shouldn’t affect him so.Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy is busy getting his life back on track. With the war over, the Dark Lord defeated, his father incarcerated in Azkaban for life, and his new status as an Auror, Draco should for once have no difficulty enjoying his life. Except, there’s the minor issue of Harry Potter apparently being his soulmate to consider.When someone starts trying to murder Harry, Draco is assigned as his protection. And although neither of the two have any idea what awaits them on the path ahead, one thing’s for certain: This will either end in bloodshed, or something far, far worse.But, yeah, no need to panic.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 341
Kudos: 553





	1. everything will be fine

Tomorrow was Harry’s twentieth birthday, and he was absolutely dreading it.

Alright, yes, the event did have its perks; he was looking forward to seeing everyone again, had been for weeks now—the old Hogwarts gang, back together again at last. If only for a single evening. But that didn’t matter, because a single evening was better than not at all.

Sure, after the war they’d all tried to meet up every so often, if only in small groups. But everyone had ended up forging their own path, just as they should.

Hermione had made the tough, but oh-so-very-Hermione decision to study wizarding law, and both Ron and Harry had launched themselves head-first into their lifelong dream of becoming Aurors.

Neville and Luna were hardly ever present at the monthly meetings they all tried their best to uphold, even with their busy, conflicting schedules. But no one blamed the two of them, seeing as they’d recently started travelling more and more frequently to Asia, which, after all, was a long way from Britain. Neville was studying a new, incredibly rare species of plant that only grew near the Gulf of Siam, while Luna…well, Harry wasn’t entirely sure what Luna was doing, but that was nothing unusual.

His other friends, thankfully, had stayed in Britain for the most part. Seamus had entered Auror training with Harry and Ron, while Dean was busy pursuing his passion for arts, having acquired a studio in Diagon Alley just a few months prior. Harry still smiled every time he remembered how excited Dean had been that evening at the pub when he’d told Harry, Ron and Hermione all about how terrific the lighting was, Seamus all the while rolling his eyes at his boyfriend but grinning widely nonetheless.

Lavender, on the other hand, had just been cast as her first lead in some major theatre production Harry had honestly never heard of before in his life, and Parvati had started an apprenticeship in Divination back at Hogwarts. And Ginny…

Harry grimaced, and immediately felt horrible for doing so. _Ginny_. It was a subject everyone tried best to avoid, even Ron. Not that Harry and Ginny were on unfriendly terms, exactly. It was all just…very complicated indeed, and Harry decided there really was no reason to torture himself with such thoughts, not when tomorrow was his bloody birthday.

All in all, Harry was happy for each and every one of his friends. They’d all found their way back into normality, even after all that had happened, things that could have easily made such a feat impossible. But they’d overcome the war, and the aftermath of it as well. They were all in a better place than they had been before.

Sometimes, he just really missed his friends, is all.

But then there was the _other issue_. The something that made his stomach clench and writhe every time his thoughts wandered back to it.

Thing is, Harry had never wasted much thought on his love life, not when there was the ever-present threat of Voldemort looming over his head. Now that the war was over and Voldemort was nothing but dust, well…Harry was out of his depth. There. He’d admitted it. It was one of the reasons the mere mention of Ginny’s name made him wince instinctively.

Harry often wondered whether the war had broken him, on some level. Because, after everything, he simply hadn’t had the energy to be with anyone, not even Ginny. And if he couldn’t find it in him to want to be with _Ginny Weasley_ , one of the most amazing, fierce and all-round incredible people he’d ever met… How could he possibly be with anyone else, ever?

Harry peered down at his right wrist. The skin there was still perfectly bare, just as it had been his entire life. Tomorrow, though, that would change.

And Harry had faced many daunting situations before in his life. He’d faced Voldemort more times than he could count, for Merlin’s sake! And yet, even then, he couldn’t remember any of them being quite so… _scary_.

He wasn’t ready for this, despite what Hermione might think. For a…a _soulmate_. Blimey, Harry thought hysterically, the word alone sounded ridiculous. And although he’d, albeit grudgingly, acknowledged soulmates seemed to be an actual thing in the wizarding world, that didn’t mean he had to _like_ it. The notion of having one person, and one person alone, with which one would be truly happy, just felt wrong. For instance, what if Harry never met his soulmate, never fell in love with them, and the letter on Harry’s wrist stayed just that—a single, useless letter—forever? What would he do then? Did that mean he’d never know true happiness?

At the end of the day, it didn’t matter anyway. None of it did, because, whether he wanted it or not, tomorrow he would get a soulmark, a single letter that could be anything from A to Z stamped into his wrist, that Harry couldn’t help but shake the feeling would change his life forever. It was cruel, really; he’d never gotten a say in his life before or during the war, what with Voldemort and all, and even now that the bastard was gone, Harry didn’t get a say on who he was going to spend the rest of his life with.

Someone up there really did hate him.

Harry was rudely wrenched from his own self-pity, when a knock sounded on the door of his apartment, followed by a familiar voice. “Harry,” Hermione said through the wood, her voice cheery. “We brought Thai.”

Harry decided self-pity could wait, at least until after dinner.

He made his way out his bedroom and across the living room and opened the door to be greeted by the smiling faces of his two best friends—and the heavenly smell of Thai. Ron immediately strode past Harry into his apartment and, after traversing the room, plopped down on one of the armchairs by the fireplace, giving a long, weary sigh as he did.

“Blimey, Hermione, we could have just Apparated instead of walking here all the way from the Thai place.” The redhead groaned. “My feet feel like they’re about to fall off.”

At the door, Hermione and Harry traded looks, and although she was obviously trying very hard to keep a serious face, Harry could tell Hermione was holding back a grin. “Honestly, Ronald,” she said and wordlessly thrusted the takeout into Harry’s open arms. “You’re so melodramatic. It was only a few blocks.” Following the example of her fiancé, she strode across the room without a second glance back at Harry, the latter of which shut the door again, amused, and placed the Thai on the kitchen counter, before joining his friends in the living room.

“A few blocks,” Ron muttered darkly under his breath. “It was far more than _a few blocks_.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the grin pulling at her lips betrayed her. Ignoring her boyfriend’s indignant huffs, she shifted her dark eyes to Harry. “So, Harry, how are you feeling about tomorrow?” To anyone who didn’t know Hermione Granger all that well, it might sound like a casual question. But the concern lacing her words gave her true intentions away, and Harry had to repress another grimace.

Sighing, he plopped down on the armchair opposite of Ron’s. “We’ve been over this, Mione. I think all this is complete and utter bollocks and I wish I could just stay nineteen forever, if only to never have to put up with having an actual _soulmate_.”

Ron frowned at that. “But nineteen’s a bloody awful age to be forever. In the States, you can’t even drink yet until you’re twenty-five.”

Hermione, again, rolled her eyes. “Twenty-one, Ronald, not twenty-five.”

Ron simply waved a dismissive hand, frown still focused on Harry. “Same difference. What I’m trying to say is, mate, I know the whole idea of soulmates is still weird for you, having grown up muggle and all. But, honestly, there’s no need to worry so much about it.” His face suddenly turned very serious indeed, which really was an odd look on Ron. He reached out for Hermione’s hand, whose frustration in turn promptly melted away. “Me and Mione, we were lucky. But even if I hadn’t met her on the train when we were eleven, I still would have found her one day, and she would have found me. Because she’s the one.”

Any hint of Hermione’s previous frustration was now replaced by a look of sheer adoration, and Harry smiled at his two best friends. He may not be completely sold on the whole soulmate-thing, but those two really were meant for each other. He’d known that even before their respective names appeared on each other’s wrists.

Ron squeezed his fiancée’s hand, but his gaze was still on Harry. “You understand what I’m trying to say? These things have a habit of working out. And if they don’t, so be it. But that doesn’t mean you can’t try. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Never actually finding his soulmate. Or having found them, but never falling in love with them and thus never knowing it was actually them. Or, even worse, finding them, loving them, and then losing them, and living the rest of his life alone, miserable and broken. Harry had been close to breaking enough times in his life already, and he wasn’t sure how many times more he could mend the cracks before restoration became impossible.

But Harry didn’t say any of that. Instead, he smiled, and said, “Fine, you two, enough of this horrible sentimentality. I’m starving, so if you two lovebirds don’t mind, I’m going to get me some Thai.” Ron grumbled something, but when Hermione plopped down beside him, he promptly shut up.

“So,” Harry called from the kitchen, all the while shovelling a big heaping of Khao Phat Gai onto his plate. “How’s the wedding planning going?” At this, two identical groans were his response, and Harry smiled down at his fried rice.

Harry’s chest warmed every time he thought about the night Ron had finally popped the question. If there was any guarantee Harry’s soulmate would fit so perfectly with him as Hermione and Ron did, then he’d probably be excited rather than fearful of what tomorrow might bring.

The moment Hermione had turned twenty, an _R_ had materialized on her wrist, which promptly turned into _Ronald Bilius Weasley_ not ten seconds after having first appeared. Six months later, on his own twentieth birthday, Ron had acquired a matching _Hermione Jean Granger_ on his wrist. And that was that. Harry’s two best friends were soulmates—well, no surprise there.

And then Ron had asked her to marry him, not a month after his soulmark appeared, saying there was no need to wait since they’d have the rest of their lives together anyway. It had all been very romantic, Harry had to hand it to his best mate; they’d all had dinner at the Burrow, and everyone had been there, even Bill and Fleur and Percy and his new girlfriend, Audrey. After dessert, Ron had gotten down on one knee in the middle of the living room and given the most heart-wrenchingly sweet proposal Harry had ever heard. Hermione had cried—as had nearly everyone else, Harry included—and immediately thrown herself into her soulmate’s arms, blubbering ‘yes, yes, yes’ for five minutes straight.

Again, Harry was happy for them. But that did nothing to reduce his own fears. Because, unlike Ron and Hermione, he hadn’t met his soulmate at age eleven, promptly becoming inseparable for the rest of their lives. And there really was no guarantee Harry would ever meet someone like that, someone who was his better half and he theirs. So Harry’s stomach constricted tighter every time his thoughts started to wander in that direction.

“Oh, don’t get me started,” Ron grumbled as Harry handed them each a plate of Thai. The redhead immediately began shovelling the rice into his mouth, even as he spoke. “Mum’s decided the wedding’s going to be at the Burrow. At the _Burrow_ , mate. Sure, Fleur and Bill’s wedding was great, minus the whole Death-Eater-attack-thing, but me and Mione don’t want to get married _at the Burrow_! Good luck trying to convince Mum of that, though.”

Harry scooped up his own spoonful of rice to hide his grin. “So, you already have a date in mind?”

This time Hermione answered. “We’re thinking of a spring wedding. Winter’s too cold, obviously, and there's still far too much planning to get through to host it this autumn. Plus, I’d love to hold the ceremony outdoors, so the weather has to be perfect. Perhaps May.”

Harry nodded along to her words. “Sounds brill. And I’m sure you’ll bet Molly to agree eventually. It’s your wedding, after all.”

Ron huffed and stabbed at his chicken. “Try telling _her_ that.”

“How’s everyone else doing, then? Are Bill and Fleur enjoying Egypt?” Harry hadn’t seen the two of them since Ron’s proposal. Fleur had decided on joining Bill as a Curse-Breaker, which Harry had thought was a splendid idea from the start, seeing as the French ex-Triwizard Tournament Champion was one of the fiercest and most capable people Harry knew.

“’Course,” Ron replied through a mouthful of rice, and Hermione slapped her fiancé’s arm lightly. He made a show of swallowing before speaking again. “Bill says Fleur’s a natural. Saved his sorry arse twice now, from what I’ve heard. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Harry chuckled. “No, me neither.”

“George is really throwing himself into his work,” Ron continued. “But it’s better than how he was directly after the war, so I’m not complaining. Percy’s still Percy, obviously, and Charlie’s just started training this new dragon race. You see, they’re especially dangerous, because not only is their breath fiery, but their tails also have these venomous barbs. _Wicked_.” The dreamy look on his mate’s face had Harry and Hermione trading another exasperated look. “And you know all ‘bout Ginny. My ickle baby sister, flying for the Holyhead Harpies.”

And just like that, Harry’s smile fell. He didn’t think Ron noticed, seeing as he was still digging into his Khao Phat Gai as though it were his last meal on earth, but Hermione definitely did. She offered him a small, sad smile in response.

“Harry,” she said. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you really ought to stop worrying so. Everything will turn out fine. Besides, just because you’ll have a soulmark doesn’t mean you can’t be with anyone else. It’s all still up to you.”

Harry wasn’t so sure about that. He couldn’t be mad at Hermione or fault her for simplifying matters just because her situation had been so, well, _simple_. But it was still frustrating to know his two best friends simply thought he was overreacting when tomorrow could very well change his life.

However, Harry said none of that. Instead, he nodded and smiled, and said, “So, Ron, about that game of Exploding Snap we were talking about back at the office…”

* * *

Just to be clear, Draco was _not_ a creepy stalker, nor was he, contrary to what Pansy always said, mindlessly obsessed with Harry Potter.

Plenty of people—who had far less business knowing Potter’s birthday than Draco did, mind you—knew tomorrow was the day the Saviour turned twenty. Every media outlet in wizarding Britain had been endlessly gushing about it for weeks now, how tomorrow the first letter of Harry Potter’s soulmate would appear on his wrist. If Draco cared at all about the git, which he _didn’t_ , then he’d likely feel sorry for him, seeing as whatever plans Potter had for his birthday, they’d definitely be disturbed at some point by hungry reporters hoping to get a shot of that horrid soulmark.

Everyone wanted to know who the soulmate of The Boy Who Lived Twice was. Everyone, that is, except Draco.

He already knew.

His own twentieth birthday a month before had been far more pleasant than Draco had expected it to be. Pansy, Blaise, Theo and Greg had taken him out for lunch to some brand-new restaurant in Diagon Alley, and the food there had been surprisingly good. What’s more, no one had bothered the group of former Slytherins; there had been no muttered insults, no evil glares, no scathing remarks spoken just loud enough for them to hear. They’d been left entirely alone.

For one afternoon, Draco had allowed himself to relax. He’d listened to Blaise’s stories of all the outlandish maladies he’d encountered so far during his apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s, let Pansy rant about the French designer she was currently apprenticing under and how horrid his temper was, followed Theo’s explanations of the invention he was currently working to perfect, and inquired about whichever magical creature Greg was busy working with over in Scotland. It had been an afternoon of catching up with friends he’d not seen for quite some time now, seeing as, after the war, they’d all made sure to stay well out of the limelight.

Well, most of them.

It had taken a lot of consideration and weighing up of options, but in the end, Draco had decided he would not hide in the shadows for the rest of his life. It was what the world expected him to do, to lock himself up in Malfoy Manor and be silently grateful he’d escaped the fate of his father. And perhaps he would have, were it not for his mother.

For Draco had known from the moment Lucius was found guilty for his crimes and sentenced to a life sentence in Azkaban that the future would not be easy on him, but most of all, it would not be easy on Narcissa. Without his father, the hallways in Malfoy Manor were too quiet, and the whole house was more of a hollow shell than an actual home, unseeable ghosts and memories haunting every nook and cranny. Draco had never in his life known Narcissa Malfoy to be afraid, not of anything—for the longest time, she’d been the bravest person he knew, not even intimidated by Voldemort himself when he was living under her own roof. But now, with Lucius gone and the war having ended so abruptly, she was looking more frazzled every day, the perfectly put-together Lady Malfoy suddenly seeming a lot less unbreakable and a lot more broken.

And Draco could simply not allow that.

So, he’d made a decision. After all, it was high time he took matters into his own hands. Even though Draco had fought against Voldemort in that final battle, it still did not accost for everything that had been done. That _he’d_ done. And therefore, he’d decided the only way to right his wrongs, or at least even out the scales, was to help in the only way he could.

It had caused much uproar when Draco Malfoy had joined the Aurors, but with time even the harshest critics had stopped spewing their ridiculous conspiracy theories about how Draco was trying to worm himself into the Ministry to one day murder them all in traditional Death Eater fashion. But Draco did his job well, very well, in fact, and even the wariest had realized that eventually.

Being a Malfoy no longer held the same glory it perhaps once had, before the war, before Voldemort. But at least it no longer warranted a handful of death threats a day owled to the Manor.

So, he’d been able to enjoy a quiet afternoon with his best friends, had been able to talk and laugh and joke and do all the things normal twenty-year-olds did when out and about.

Until, that is, halfway through the second course, his right wrist had started burning and a single, cursive _H_ had appeared on his previously bare skin.

An _H_ that had, seconds later, morphed into the three words Draco had tried his entire life to avoid thinking about. The name he’d somehow, deep, deep down, known would appear on his wrist that day, a name he’d heard so often over the past nine years any rational person should be sick of it by now. Except Draco was known to oftentimes be quite irrational.

He’d expected it, and yet expecting didn’t make it any less horrifying when the name _Harry James Potter_ permanently etched itself into his skin.

He’d done very well indeed the past few years avoiding Potter, even though they both worked as Aurors in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and their paths were bound to cross every once in a while. He’d done so, so well to keep his head down and only ever give a stiff nod if their eyes met across the hallway.

Now _this_.

Draco had panicked. There, he admitted it. And in his panic, he perhaps hadn’t behaved entirely sensible. Instead, he’d jumped up from his chair, almost knocking it backwards, and bounded out the restaurant, ignoring the worried exclamations from his friends and the alarmed cries of the other restaurant-goers, only to Disapparate the moment he was outside.

His mother had been confused, to say the least, when a frantic, wide-eyed Draco clutching his right wrist as though it might fall off at any second sprinted through the Manor and into his room, not offering a single word of explanation before barricading himself in.

It had taken his mother and friends an entire hour of comforting and coaxing to get Draco to unlock the door and let in his mother, and only his mother. He’d silently held out his wrist for her to read, still feeling far too nauseous to utter a single word. But he hadn’t needed to. She’d taken one look at the elegantly written name and proceeded to envelop him in a bone-crushing hug the likes of which Draco hadn’t even been sure his mother was still capable of, whispering again and again that it was alright, he’d be alright, everything was alright.

When Draco had then let his friends in, the reactions had been more vocal, but, much to Draco’s everlasting gratitude, all in all just as comforting as his mother’s. Not a single one of them had been disgusted or horrified or angry, and Pansy had gone as far as saying they really shouldn’t be surprised, what with Draco’s painfully obvious crush on Potter during their time at Hogwarts, which had in turn made Draco blush furiously and mutter under his breath that he had _not_ had a crush on Potter. Which, of course, was wholly pointless, seeing as the full name now written on his wrist begged to differ.

And just like that, Draco’s worries had been appeased, at least for the time being. The people that mattered hadn’t minded the name now tattooed across his wrist, hidden 24/7 underneath either long sleeves or a leather band.

But tomorrow, Draco knew, was Potter’s twentieth birthday. And, just like that, all those worries resurfaced again.

Because, while Draco sincerely doubted Potter would wake up tomorrow to find the name _Draco Lucius Malfoy_ engraved in his wrist—after all, the single letter only ever turned into a full name if there were, err, feelings there—Potter would likely still find a _D_ where there had been nothing but bare skin the day before. And, though unlikely, there were many ways he might accidentally find out Draco sported his name. And, knowing Potter, his reaction to that was bound to be explosive.

And then there was the second option. That Potter’s soulmark would not be a _D_ at all. Draco had done the research; while very, very rare, unrequited soulmates did exist. Draco would never ever admit aloud, but he despised said second option with every fibre of his being.

Long story short, Draco was nervous. And just a tad scared. And, fine, maybe just a little, tiny, miniscule bit excited. Which was, of course, ridiculous. All of this soulmate-business was bound to end in one great big mess, and it would ultimately be Draco who’d have to clean up the pieces.

And yet.

At least it was the weekend, Draco mused as he waited more or less patiently for Pansy to finish trying on clothes. He’d been waiting outside the fitting room for what seemed like hours now, and while his patience was far greater than, say, a certain Gryffindor’s with messy hair and a lightning scar, sitting there with nothing to do but stare at the dresses Pansy had thrown out and try to determine just by looking at them which was the most expensive pushed even his tolerance.

“Are you nearly done?” he called. “I promised Mother I’d be back by six, and it’s almost seven already.”

A rustling sound sounded from inside the changing cubicle, followed by an indignant huff, and then the door opened, revealing Pansy, who stood clad in a black dress so tight it was a wonder she was even breathing in it. Oh, wait, scratch that. Judging by the painful set of her mouth, she likely wasn’t breathing at all.

Draco uncrossed his legs and raised an eyebrow at his best friend. “Not that you don’t look marvellous, darling, but I’m not sure it’ll do you much good if you can neither move nor speak nor breathe.”

Pansy scowled at him, her thick lashes darkening her eyes further. “Oh, sod off, Draco. I can speak just fine. Move, too, with a little bit of effort. And breathe…well, who needs to breathe when you can look like this instead.”

Draco chuckled. “Touché. Is that the one, then? Not that I’m not immensely enjoying sitting around with nothing to do, it’s just, you know, I’m really not. And I really did promise Mother—”

“—you’d be home by six. Yes, yes, I heard you the first time,” Pansy quipped, smoothing out her black bob as she studied her reflection in the mirror, eyes narrowed critically.

Draco took pity on his friend and stood, repeating, tone softer, “You really do look great, Pans. Honest. I pity the poor bloke you set your eyes on next. He won’t even know what hit him.”

Pansy grinned mischievously. “What can I say? I’m just too good at this.” But then her eyes found Draco’s through the mirror, and that grin turned into a concerned frown. “How are you holding up, by the way? You know, what with tomorrow being you-know-who’s birthday.”

“Why, Pansy, don’t be ridiculous,” Draco drawled. “Voldemort’s birthday isn’t until December.” But that half-arsed attempt at humour only earned him another narrow-eyed glare from his fellow Slytherin.

He huffed, plopping back down into the armchair in a very undignified, non-pureblood fashion. “Well, how am I supposed to be holding up? I don’t know, Pans, truly. Am I nervous? Yes. Am I likely making a big deal out of nothing? Also, yes. Will he probably never realize the _D_ stands for my name, seeing as he certainly doesn’t have any feelings for me? Yes, yes and yes.” He groaned. “Why can’t I just be in love with you like a sane bloke.”

At that, Pansy’s face lifted again, and she hurried over to give Draco a quick peck on the cheek. “Oh, chin up, lover boy. It’ll all work out, just you wait.”

Irrational or not, Draco certainly hoped it would. But fate had never been kind to him for any prolonged periods of time, so he wasn’t counting on it.

He just hoped nothing too bad would happen.


	2. and so the panicking begins

“Has it appeared yet?” Seamus asked excitedly, peering across the table at Harry’s wrist, as though hoping to look through the sleeves of the green jumper hiding both his wrists from view.

Harry shook his head, at which not only Seamus, but almost everyone at the table visibly deflated. Everyone except Luna, that is, who said cheerily, “Unpredictable, soulmarks are. Some of them like creating suspense, you can’t fault them for it.”

Harry offered a small smile in response. He truly was glad to see everyone again, but he was regretting more and more with every passing second having picked such a public location for his birthday dinner. The pub was filled to the brim, and he could at all times feel the weight of expectant eyes pressing into his back. More than a few times, he’d caught people at neighbouring table whispering excitedly, throwing glances towards him.

The attention was nothing unusual anymore—no, although it still irked him plenty, he’d gotten used to it. But this wasn’t the usual ‘Oh look, it’s Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Savior of the wizarding world’ sort of attention. It was ‘Oh look, it’s Harry Potter, I wonder who his soulmate is’. And for some reason the latter bothered him a lot more than the former.

It was his bloody life, wasn’t it? His knowledge on the subject may be limited, but soulmates seemed like something very private—not something to be broadcasted across the entirety of the wizarding world.

While on the subject of soulmates; Harry still hadn’t entirely gotten over the fact that most of the people around the table had already found their soulmates, who were, for the most part, sitting right beside them. Hermione had Ron, Seamus had Dean, Neville had Luna. Lavender’s wrist displayed a _B_ , while Parvati’s showed an _I_. Ginny, Harry knew, didn’t have a soulmark yet.

Naturally, Harry had invited Ginny. They were still friends after all, even after their breakup. Plus, Ron would have probably murdered him had he not; Ron was a great best mate, yes, but even that wouldn’t save Harry from the wrath of an older brother if Harry decided to completely sever ties with Ginny. But just because he’d invited her didn’t mean he wasn’t shocked when she’d actually showed up that evening, offering him a tentative smile before sliding into the booth beside Luna.

He wasn’t sure what he’d do if a _G_ appeared on his wrist. If that _G_ morphed into the name _Ginny Weasley_. Sure, Ginny was great, but he’d broken off their relationship for a reason. If fate now suddenly decided to go ‘nope, you’re destined to be together forever after all’…well, it would be awkward as hell, to say the least.

“So,” Hermione said then, turning to Parvati and the stranger sitting to her right. “Who’s this? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before, Mister…?”

The stranger smiled, showcasing perfect white teeth. His blue eyes seemed to glow as he replied in a vaguely American accent, “Call me Nic. Full name’s Dominic Hayes, and I work with Parvati back at Hogwarts. I’m set on becoming an Ancient Runes Professor, you see. Much better than Divination under Trelawney, that crazy old nutcase, that’s for sure.” He nudged Parvati playfully, who huffed, feigning offense.

Everyone else laughed, and Harry found himself studying the stranger—Nic—more closely. He had curly chocolate brown hair and a carefree sort of air about him. “Are you from the States?” he asked.

Nic focused his eyes on Harry. “I was born here in London, actually, but my parents moved to New York when I was three. Mom’s a half-blood, and Dad’s a No-Maj, err, muggle. Lived there until just a few months ago, when I decided I needed to check out Hogwarts. You know, see what all the fuss is about.” Parvati rolled her eyes playfully, but Nic dutifully ignored her, his smile, however, widening slightly. “It’s incredible. To be honest, I’m rather sad I spent my years rotting away in Ilvermorny when I could have been going to Hogwarts since I was eleven.” He shrugged. “Alas, what can you do? Besides, I’m here now, so I’m not all that disappointed anymore.”

Harry chuckled and nodded. He couldn’t possibly imagine _not_ having gone to Hogwarts. It had left as much of a lasting mark on his very identity as Voldemort had. Harry’s life had only ever really started there, seeing as what he’d gone through with the Dursleys couldn’t possibly be categorized as a childhood, and although Ilvermorny was said to be similarly impressive, he was still of the concrete opinion no school on the planet could possibly compete with Hogwarts.

“So,” Lavender said, glancing at Parvati mischievously, “are you two…?”

Parvati made a face at her best friend, but Nic simply laughed. “ _Lavender Brown_!” Parvati exclaimed, looking scandalized. “Nic and I aren’t…he isn’t…we’re not—”

Fortunately for her and her ever-reddening face, Nic jumped in at that point, still chuckling lightly. “Lovely as Parvati is, she and I aren’t dating. Our relationship is strictly platonic. Besides, it wouldn’t work anyway. Me, I play for the other team, if you catch my drift.”

Lavender looked mildly disappointed, and Parvati still appeared as though every milliliter of blood in her entire body had flooded to her face, and Harry had to chuckle at the comical look of abject humiliation etched into his friend’s expression.

Thankfully for her, Dean piped up at that moment. “Ancient Runes, eh?” he asked, untangling himself from Seamus just enough to look over at where Nic sat on the other end of the table, seeming interested. “You’re right, that does sound a lot more fun than Divination. Can’t say I was ever really good at it, though.”

Seamus grinned. “Love, you were never really good at anything that involved languages, foreign ones or _English_. The sooner you face that particular fact of life, the sooner we can stop pretending you’re not absolutely pants at that god-awful Scrobble-game you always insist on playing.”

Dean turned to glare at his boyfriend, slapping him on the arm once, though Harry doubted there was any actual ire in the act. “Hey! First of all, for the millionth time, it’s _Scrabble_ , not Scrobble, and I’ll have you know my language skills are excellent. I actually won an essay-writing competition at my old school before I came to Hogwarts.”

Seamus pulled a face. “Eww, why would anyone write essays for _fun_?”

Across the table, Hermione drew in a long breath and opened her mouth, face scrunched up in that way Harry had grown so familiar with over his years at Hogwarts, the same expression she’d always worn before launching into some nice long lecture about how important it was they take their studies seriously or something of the such. And while Harry would love to spend the rest of the evening listening to his best friend rant about the necessity of essays and how they could be both educational _and_ fun if one applied oneself—he would really rather not. And it was Harry’s twentieth birthday, so really, he figured, it was his right to jump in before Hermione could start talking.

“Alright, alright, I think that’s enough talk about schoolwork.” Hermione shot him an indignant look, but then pursed her lips, thankfully staying quiet. Harry’s eyes searched the table, then landed on Neville and Luna, the latter of which had her head resting comfortably upon her boyfriend’s shoulder, watching the rest of the group with that familiar dreamy expression of hers. “ _Luna_ ,” Harry said. “How’s your search going for that rare subspecies of flobberworm you were looking for over in Asia? Found any yet?”

Luna smiled at the question. “Unfortunately, no. But I’m optimistic I’ll come across them sooner or later. Can’t rush these sort of things, you know. They’ll come to me when they’re comfortable doing so.”

Harry blinked at Luna referring to flobberworms as though they were a sulking child carrying a grudge against her because she’d forbidden it to eat a third chocolate frog. But then again, this was Luna. So, he simply smiled back at her, nodding understandingly.

Luna continued brightly, “I may not have found the flobberworms yet, but Neville here did recently come across an especially interesting flower. It fools the mind, you see, lures you in with its scent—it smells like treacle tart, by the way—and then eats you. It’s all very exciting, really. Almost got me a few times.” Her tone stayed light and airy, even at that last part, and beside her, Neville’s eyes glowed adoringly as he smiled down at his soulmate.

Harry’s chest constricted slightly. They were perfect for each other, too, Neville and Luna. As were Seamus and Dean. How could Harry ever hope to find someone that fit with him so completely and effortlessly? The notion seemed impossible.

They ordered another round, and soon everyone was chatting amicably as though the three years since Hogwarts had never happened, as though they were back at school, relaxing after an especially tiresome day of classes. Everyone put in their two cents, even Ginny, who’d stayed unusually quiet that evening, and soon Harry had forgotten all about the soulmark that was sure to appear on his wrist sometime that day. And once he’d forgotten about the thing that had kept him on the edge of his seat all day, glancing at his wrist every other minute, he was genuinely enjoying himself.

But he was Harry Potter, and so he should have known an evening of relaxation and cheerful conversation with his closest friends was simply too much to ask for.

Ron had just launched into a tale of a case he and Harry had recently taken at the Ministry—some maniac who was running amok in wizarding London, hexing muggleborns and sometimes half-bloods left and right—when Harry’s right wrist started burning. He instantly dropped the chip he’d been lifting to his mouth to stare wide-eyed at his wrist, where warmth now surged through his veins, like flames flickering underneath his skin. It wasn’t painful, exactly, but it had appeared so unexpectedly Harry couldn’t help but hiss.

Within a half-second, conversation at their table—and the next, and the next, it seemed—had halted just as abruptly, and all eyes found him. Harry had half a mind to rip down the sleeve still hiding his new soulmark from the world, but instead simply gaped stupidly at his right wrist as the warmth lessened, then subsided completely.

Their table was utterly silent, until Ron said hesitantly, “Mate, is it…?”

Harry blinked at him, then back at his wrist. And, slowly, carefully, as though the soulmark might leap out and attack him, he pulled down his right sleeve just enough to briefly peak at the letter now stamped into his skin.

 _D_. It was a _D_.

He didn’t know how to react. Should he be glad? Should he be disappointed? On the one hand, he was silently thankful it wasn’t a _G_ after all, because, as he’d already stated before, that would just be awkward. But…a _D_. There were so many people whose names started with the letter D. How the hell was he supposed to find… _his_ someone?

Harry blinked again, clearing his mind from the shock, and looked up at his friends, all of which were eying him with unabashedly obvious eagerness. “It’s a _D_ ,” he heard himself say, and just like that the silence evaporated again, an excited buzz overtaking not only their table, but those closest to them as well. Apparently, and Harry really should have seen this coming before speaking, there had been more than just his friends’ ears listening in.

“A _D_ ,” Hermione gushed, grinning widely as she took his head from across the table and squeezed it reassuringly. “Oh, there are just so many possibilities! At this table alone, two people have names starting with the letter D. Of, course, Dean is already taken, but Dominic… You know, Harry, statistically speaking, there’s an eighty-two percent chance you already know your soulmate. Who else do we know that starts with the letter D?”

The others started supplying names, none of which Harry thought were very probable. Like, for example, Daphne Greengrass. He shuddered at the thought. There was _no_ _way_ that girl was his soulmate. He’d sooner be soulmates with one of those flobberworms Luna was looking for.

He took a sip of his Butterbeer, sitting back and watching his friends as they deliberated who his soulmate might be. He’d said before he didn’t like the idea of anyone discussing such private matters, but that was the general public, strangers who had no business whatsoever analysing some twenty-year-old bloke’s love life or lack thereof. Watching his closest friends speculate in varying degrees of sobriety with varying degrees of fervour who Harry’s destined life partner might be was nothing short of amusing.

Or it was, until Harry started feeling queasy. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint when it had started, but he definitely noticed it when a sudden stab of pain split through his stomach, making him bowl over in pain. Once again, all eyes swivelled to him, but this time there was no eagerness shining in them and instead only worry.

“Harry, are you alright?” asked Nic, whose brows were knitted with genuine concern although he hardly knew Harry. Had he not been so overwhelmed with pain at that moment, Harry might have found that touching.

“I…,” Harry breathed, and immediately grimaced. He waved a vague hand towards the exit. “I think I need some fresh air. You guys stay here and enjoy yourselves.” He shook his head when Ron started to stand, repressing another grimace. “No, really. Stay. Keep having fun. I’ll manage.”

Without waiting for their answers, or protests, for that matter, Harry stood, blinking away the black spots that had started to sprout across his vision, and he made his way across the pub towards the exit, grateful he managed to stay standing throughout the entire trek and not to stumble much at all.

The moment he’d reached the door and stepped outside into the refreshingly cool night air, he nearly collapsed onto the cobbled path of Diagon Alley. There were only a few people still out, none of which, luckily, paid him any attention at all, likely mistaking him for yet another freshly minted adult who’d had just a few pints too many.

That relief didn’t last, though, when another wave of agony pulsed through him, and a coughing fit overtook him, making his shoulders shake violently. He coughed, so violently it felt as though he was coughing up a piece of his lung, and his throat burned from the inside out.

When his hands came away from his mouth, under the silver light of the moon, Harry looked in horror down at the red blood now staining his fingers.

Fuck. Harry may not have been a Healer, but he knew coughing up blood was never _ever_ a good sign. And the dark spots still wouldn’t leave his vision—as a matter of fact, they might even be multiplying—no matter how often and forcibly he blinked.

Fuck fuck fuck.

It was then that another wave of pain swashed over him, so deep and cuttingly it became hard to breathe for a moment, and he bowled over again, coughing up more blood, his vision going dark. He thought he felt something on his back, and he could have sworn a voice spoke then, a voice some deep-rooted part of his mind recognized. But then another coughing fit smashed through his body, and he forgot all about the voice.

“Potter? _Potter_!”

A flash of silver blond was the last thing Harry saw before his legs gave way and his vision went completely dark.

* * *

Draco had not planned on going to Diagon Alley that evening. As a matter of fact, his plans had consisted wholly of lying in his bed back at Malfoy Manor, curled up in his favorite silk pyjamas with the embarrassingly sappy novel his mother had gifted him for his birthday, shoveling chocolate pralines into his mouth and feeling generally sorry for himself, thank you very much.

He couldn’t say exactly why he’d decided to forgo that perfectly lovely plan in favor of doing some night-time strolling through Diagon Alley, but he’d found himself doing it anyways. But whatever his plans might have been, finding Harry Potter in the alley, all alone, hunched over in pain, coughing up what looked disturbingly like blood, was definitely not part of them.

And then the git had just _fainted_ , right there in front of Draco. Any confusion or shock he’d had seconds before evaporated instantly, and he didn’t think twice before grabbing the infuriating Gryffindor and Apparating directly to St. Mungo’s.

A bit of general panicking and less-than-subtle allegations as to Draco’s involvement in the Boy Who Lived turning up at the hospital at death’s door, later, Draco found himself pacing restlessly outside the hospital room they’d carted Potter off to. It wasn’t that he was worried, Draco told himself, jaw clenched. He simply couldn’t afford to have Potter dying now after Draco had been the one to bring him in, thus making himself a prime suspect, whether it made any logical sense or not.

If that stupid git died on him now, Draco would murder him.

He subconsciously run a trembling hand through his hair yet again, scowling when he realized he must have already completely messed up the hairstyle he’d spent an hour that morning meticulously perfecting. But it was too late now, seeing as he’d already raked his hands through it more times than he could count.

As per usual, it was all Potter’s fault.

Thankfully, at that moment, someone came rushing down the hallway, and when Draco looked up, it was Blaise’s concerned face that greeted him. The apprentice hadn’t even reached Draco yet, his white Healer’s robes fluttering after him as he ran, when he burst out, “Did you do it? Did you try to murder him?” Draco blinked once in shock, but Blaise was already continuing. “Look, I won’t blame you if you did; Potter’s a very irritating individual. But there’s the whole legal situation to consider, plus, attempted murder on the Saviour of the wizarding world won’t really help your public image.”

Draco scowled. “Blaise! I did _not_ try to murder Potter!”

Blaise studied his face, frowning and all in all not looking entirely convinced. “You sure, mate? Like I said, I could understand if you did—”

“I _didn’t_!” Draco half-shouted, running a hand through his hair yet again. Perfect, just perfect. “Merlin, Blaise, I swear to you I didn’t try to off Harry bloody Potter. How daft would I have to be to attempt murder and then bring him here? I _saved_ his _life_.”

A look of complete bewilderment overtook Blaise’s face at that, and Draco groaned into his hands. He should have stayed the fuck at home with his cosy pyjamas and sappy book and delicious chocolates. Harry Potter was always— _always_ —more trouble than he was worth.

Only, fuck it all to hell, that wasn’t true, and he knew it.

“Are you going to provide me with any actual helpful information, or are you simply going to stand there stupidly, judging me with about as much subtlety as a Weasley?” Draco snapped at his friend, suddenly feeling awfully tetchy.

At that, Blaise’s confusion melted a bit, and he glanced at the closed door of Potter’s hospital room. “I don’t know much at all, I’m afraid. Only that it seems Potter was poisoned somehow. Acturin, they think it is—a nasty concoction, really. Potter’s lucky you, err, found him so quickly.”

Draco glowered at the disbelief in Blaise’s voice at those final few words but chose to say nothing. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “But it’s curable? He won’t die?”

Finally, Blaise seemed to fully regain his usual blasé attitude. “Please,” he snorted. “This is Harry Potter we’re talking about. As in, the Saviour of the wizarding world himself. For him, they’d find a cure for bloody Avada Kedavra.”

Draco’s lips twisted into a frown nonetheless, and he glanced back towards the still closed door. A short pause ensued, until Blaise spoke again, this time sounding much more cautious. “Are you, err…are you alright?”

Draco turned back to his friend, brow furrowed. “Am _I_ alright? I assure you, it was just Potter who was poisoned. I only found him and Apparated him here.”

Blaise’s lips twitched into a frown, and he hesitated before speaking again, as though he couldn’t quite figure out what exactly to say. “No, I don’t mean it like that. I mean—” He gestured vaguely at Draco’s right wrist, hidden as always under the sleeve of his black robes. “— _are you alright_.”

Draco wasn’t sure whether to be touched or offended by the question. He wasn’t even sure what to bloody reply. No, he was certainly not fine, thank you very much. Potter, the insufferable Gryffindor, had somehow gotten himself nearly killed _again_ , three fucking years after the war had ended, and could very well die any instant now.

“I’m _fine_ , Blaise. Again: it’s Potter who was poisoned, not me.”

For a moment, Draco was sure his friend saw right through his lie. But then Blaise closed his mouth and gave a stiff nod. “Good.”

And before either of them could indulge in any more awkward conversation, the doors down the hallway were thrown open, and in rushed a pack of about a dozen panic-stricken, frantic-looking Gryffindors.

“Where’s Harry?” exclaimed a bleary-eyed Hermione Granger, at the same time as an unusually pallid Ronald Weasley narrowed his eyes at Draco and Blaise and spat, “What the bloody hell are you two doing here?”

Blaise, ever the composed gentleman, answered immediately, voice calm, “I work here. What are _you_ doing here? I can’t imagine Clarisse let you all in here, especially not in the state you’re in.”

Weasley blinked, as though trying to find the hidden insult in Blaise’s unruffled words. Beside him, Granger repeated, voice far more high-pitched and squeaky than Draco remembered it being, “Where’s Harry? Is he alright? What happened? All the Welcome Witch would tell us is that he was…that he was poisoned.” Her voice cracked at that last word, and Draco felt an unfamiliar surge of empathy for his former muggle-born classmate.

Again, Blaise, much to Draco’s gratitude, answered evenly, “Yes, that’s right. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that, though, since I don’t know any further details myself. But we do have a team of our best Healers in there with him as we speak. I have no doubt he’ll make a full recovery.”

At that, Granger deflated visibly, a good portion of tension leaving her shoulders as she leaned on Weasley and breathed, “Oh, thank God.”

But Weasley’s scowl didn’t fade, not even as he stroked a soothing hand down his girlfriend’s back. “That doesn’t answer my question. Why is _Malfoy_ here?” He spat the name out as though it were an insult, which, Draco supposed, to Weasley and many other witches and wizards in Britain, it very well was.

“Answer the question, ferret,” barked a man Draco recognized as Seamus Finnigan, yet another of Potter’s old Gryffindor posse. “What did you do to Harry?”

At that, Draco’s own scowl returned in full force. “For the hundredth time, I did nothing to Potter except _save his bloody life_! I know I may not have the best track record concerning Potter, but how utterly _stupid_ do you lot think I am to believe I’d try to murder the Boy Who Lived, Vanquisher of Evil, Slayer of the Dark Lord himself— _and then proceed to Apparate him to St. Mungo’s_?”

Stunned silence descended upon the corridor, and Draco used those few moments of reprieve to take in the pasty faces across the hall. There were Weasley and Granger, of course, and Finnigan and the She-Weasel and Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. Those six Draco recognized instantly. The others were a bit trickier, but after a bit of brain-racking he identified Dean Thomas, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil as well, plus some bloke Draco had never seen before. Briefly, Draco wondered how the hell all of them had gotten wind of Potter’s predicament so quickly, but then it hit him that, of course they’d be with him, it was his bloody birthday after all.

And that brought on yet another surge of worry, but for a very different reason.

“You…,” Longbottom said, his tone dazed, and blinked stupidly at Draco. “You saved his life?”

Whatever spell had been holding Potter’s loyal bunch of followers in paralysis, it disappeared at Longbottom’s words. Weasley’s mouth thinned, and he fixed a scathing glare on Draco as he crossed his arms and said, “ _Malfoy_? Save Harry? I don’t believe it.”

Infuriation shot through Draco. He did _not_ need this right now, didn’t need fucking Weaselby interrogating him in a hospital corridor on top of everything else. “Well, believe it. I don’t have the patience nor the restraint to explain it to you right now, _Weasel_ , so you can ask Potter once he wakes up. I’m sure he’ll be happy to explain everything in terms even your pea-sized brain can comprehend.”

Problem is, Draco didn’t think Potter would be able to recall a single detail of what had happened. He wasn’t even sure Potter had realized Draco was there at all before succumbing to gravity like a fell tree. Which did not help Draco’s alibi in the slightest. Merlin, if Potter actually believed _Draco_ had somehow poisoned him…

“Gentlemen, please,” Blaise said, holding up his hands. “This is a _hospital_. If you’re itching for a fight so badly, I kindly ask you to take it outside. But if you want to stay within these walls, you all need to calm down.” He frowned. “I understand this is stressful for everyone, but Potter will be _fine_. No need to worry so.”

There may not have been any need, but that didn’t stop Draco from worrying, not at all. And, it seemed, neither did it Potter’s friends. Yet, by some miracle, none of them said anything further, and even Weasley merely pulled a face before plopping down on the chair beside Granger’s, her hand clasped tightly in his own. Draco caught a glimpse of the name stamped on Weasley’s freckled wrist, and, with some disgust but absolutely zero surprise, found said name to be _Hermione Jean Granger_.

Of course Granger and Weasley were soulmates. How the fuck could they not be? Draco wasn’t sure why the thought frustrated him so. It wasn’t that he envied the relationship of the two Gryffindors. He did, however, envy how straightforward it was, always had been—two best friends, bound since First Year, always there for each other, always loyal. The notion was so horrifically simple, so nauseatingly sweet, that Draco felt the need to yell at someone, preferably Weasley.

Because him, Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and all-round foul git, he would never have that. Fate had, like so often in his life already, decided he wasn’t worthy of a nice, sweet, straightforward path, and had instead reached right into his chest, ripped out his heart, dropped it into a box, locked said box, and thrown Harry bloody Potter of all people the key.

Draco’s gaze drifted for the millionth time that night to the closed door across the hallway. Merlin, he really was so royally fucked.


	3. disaster is to be anticipated

When Harry awoke, it was to two things: one, a white ceiling so spotless and bright it blinded him just looking at it, and two, a truly agonizing wave of nausea.

Bile rose at the back of his throat, and he rolled over just in time to be sick all over the side of his bed, rendering the previously white sheets, well…not white anymore. Groggily and with a pounding headache, Harry sat up, and after blinking the blurriness from his vision, his gaze drifted across the room, instinctively taking in his surroundings. He’d been in plenty hospital rooms in his life, so it took him about half a second to realize he must be in St. Mungo’s. But why? What had—

Oh.

Well, shit.

He remembered the blinding pain in his stomach, as though someone was slicing him up from the inside, and the fire in his throat, and the black spots that had clouded his vision, and the coughing fit of blood, and… Wait. Someone had _been_ there with him. He distinctly remembered someone calling his name, sounding worried. Or, no, not his name, not Harry. They’d said—

“Potter.”

Harry’s eyes shot across the room to where the doors had opened only to reveal Draco Malfoy striding towards him, face hidden under that usual cool mask of composure. But his grey eyes took Harry in from head to toe, which left Harry feeling oddly uncomfortable. When said eyes landed on the mess Harry had just made, the latter’s face grew hot with embarrassment. But Malfoy wordlessly waved his wand in direction of the bed, and within the blink of an eye the sick had vanished, leaving the white sheets good as new.

A moment of silence passed. Then Malfoy said simply, “Good. You don’t look anymore like one of those walking cadavers muggles are so obsessed with for some inexplicable reason. Fucking obtuse, if you ask me. As if an Inferius would run around moaning ‘brains, brains, brains’. _Please_.”

Harry blinked. Draco bloody Malfoy was standing there, in Harry’s hospital room, looking overdressed as ever and stiff as a board, comparing Harry to…to zombies, it seemed. “I’m not even going to ask you why you know about zombies,” Harry said dazedly, which made Malfoy blink, his lips quirking. “But, err…mind explaining to me what the fuck I’m doing in a hospital?”

Malfoy’s grey eyes darkened, as did his scowl. “Why, recovering from attempted murder, of course. What did you think you were doing here, Potter? Enjoying the five-star accommodations? Perhaps the gourmet food?”

Harry pulled a face. So, Malfoy was as exasperating a git as he’d always been. “Oh, sod off. You know that’s not what I meant. What are _you_ doing here?”

A flash of something Harry couldn’t read passed over the Slytherin’s statuesque features, but then he was back to scowling again, and he spat, “Making a right fool of myself, it appears. Merlin, Potter, next time you faint in front of me after having just coughed up enough blood to fill a bathtub, I’ll just leave you in the alley, yeah?”

Harry’s eyes widened impossibly, and with his gaping mouth, he knew he was sure to look utterly ridiculous. But he didn’t care. “That really was you, then? You found me?”

“And Apparated you here, to St. Mungo’s,” Malfoy finished, looking annoyed. “Yes, yes, Potter, do keep up.”

Harry was stunned. “You…saved me?”

“For fuck’s sake, why does _everyone_ find that so hard to believe?” Malfoy’s lips pursed. “I do possess a shred of human decency, you know, even if it may sometimes be obscured by my pitch-black heart.” He said it with a heavy dose of sarcasm, but Harry for some reason wasn’t bothered.

Instead, he studied the Slytherin closer. While his pale skin was flawless as ever, it was slightly darker underneath his eyes, and his usually neatly combed back white blond hair was loose, falling all the way down to his sharp cheekbones. Harry dimly noted he liked it better that way, but then immediately winced at how ridiculous that thought was.

However, before either Harry or Malfoy could say another word, the doors were thrown open once more, and in rushed the concerned faces of Harry’s friends, Hermione at the head of the pack.

“Harry! Oh God, you have no idea how worried we’ve been! I’m so sorry for not having noticed anything at the pub,” she burst out, the bags underneath her eyes visible even with her dark skin. Immediately, she seized his hand, holding it tight as though it were the only thing tethering her to the world. “Had the circumstances been any different, you could have very well died outside in the alley, while we were all inside, chatting like a bunch of oblivious bigmouths, while you were…you were…” She let out a strangled sob, and Harry squeezed her hand as tightly as he could without another fresh wave of pain enveloping him whole.

“Mione,” he said. “It’s not your fault, understood? I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

Hermione let out a flustered huff. “But it _isn’t_! Harry, someone tried to _murder_ you! They poisoned your Butterbeer; the Aurors found traces of Acturin in it, which you should know is an incredibly lethal poison that you ought to have _died_ from!”

“But I didn’t. Whoever did this, they didn’t succeed.” His gaze flitted to Malfoy, who still stood by the door, as still and as tense as a statue, grey eyes fixed on Harry. “Malfoy found me, and Apparated me here before anything bad could happen. So, really, there’s no need to get worked up about it, Mione.”

“So it’s true then?” This time, it was Ron who spoke, looking sickly pale, so much so that every single one of his freckles stood out like stars in the night sky. “Malfoy really didn’t try to kill you? He…he saved your life?”

Harry nodded, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Malfoy’s scowl deepen, though he couldn’t for the love of Merlin say why. Harry was _helping_ him here, after all. “Yes, Ron, he did. Thanks by the way for that, Malfoy. Don’t think I got the chance to say that yet.”

Malfoy blinked, and looked to the floor, fixating it with a glare so fierce Harry wouldn’t have been surprised had it burst into flames. “Yes, yes, Potter, no need to get all sentimental.”

Harry almost smiled, amused—only when he took in the haggard faces all around him, that urge disappeared just as quickly as it had come. “As much as I appreciate you all being here, you really shouldn’t have stayed all night. Lav, I know you have a flight to catch this afternoon—”

Lavender cut him short before Harry could say anything further, batting a hand at him. “Harry, do us all a favour and shut up, will you? My flight can be postponed. We’re your _friends_ , you dim-witted moron, understand? Friends stay at the hospital overnight if someone they care about recently had a brush with death. _Again_ , might I add. How many times have you almost died now, exactly? Do you even keep count anymore?”

Harry really did smile this time, although he was rewarded for the effort with another sharp flash of pain that blasted through his head like a shock of electricity. And just like that, his smile warped into an agonized grimace. When his vision cleared again, everyone in the room had taken a step towards him—even Malfoy, he noted with some surprise.

Harry shook his head. “Sorry, sorry. I’m fine now, really, just…still recovering, it seems.”

“Well, of course you’re still recovering, silly,” said Luna, but her tone didn’t hold its usual carefree cheer. Nor did her face, Harry was alarmed to see; his friend’s expression was pinched and drawn, none of her usual buoyancy in sight. “You need to rest, Harry. Even the Wrackspurts are keeping well away from you right now, and that’s never good.”

Taken aback by Luna’s uncharacteristic seriousness, Harry simply stared. Before, he or anyone else for that matter, could utter another word, the door to Harry’s hospital room opened once again. This time, three new faces came striding in, two of which Harry dimly recognized.

“Mr. Potter!” cried the stranger, a pudgy old man with silver hair clad in white Healer robes. He scampered across the room, shooing away Harry’s friends—who looked less than pleased about it but obliged with nothing more than a few light scowls. “My name is Healer Hodkinson, Mr. Potter. I know you likely get this a lot, but it truly is such an _honour_ to meet you. There’s absolutely no need to worry, we’ll have you back on your feet in no time!”

Harry could only force a small smile in response. One would think after three years he’d have gotten used to being bombarded by total strangers with attention and compliments and overall glorification—but no, he was still just as uncomfortable with it as before, and thus reacted correspondingly.

Behind Healer Hodkinson, the familiar serene face of Blaise Zabini appeared, and Harry was surprised to find him clad in the same white as the Healer, likely meaning the Slytherin was apprenticing here at St. Mungo’s. Huh. Harry had never really known Zabini all that well, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised. But before Harry could give it much more thought, the third someone stepped up to the foot of Harry’s cot.

“Head Auror Robards,” Harry said in surprise, and inclined his head in greeting. “What are you doing here, sir?”

Robards’ eyes were stormy. “Trying to figure out who recently tried to kill one of my best Aurors, Harry. As I’m sure you already know, you were poisoned with Acturin. That particular poison is hard to come by, not to mention outrageously expensive, so whoever did this should by no means be underestimated—their intent was clearly murder, and a gruesome one at that.”

Harry nodded, only at the back of his mind thinking he should probably be more worried by all this. Only—some homicidal madman trying to murder Harry in the most agonizing way possible? Same old, same old. Whoever was up there, pulling the strings, really ought to come up with something a bit more creative next time.

“Harry,” Robards said, and something in his voice yanked Harry from his deliberations, making him look up again. He was startled to find concern gleaming behind the Head Auror’s dark eyes. “I know you’ve been through your fair share of assassination attempts. But this is serious. There’s a high chance whoever did this may be a Death Eater, or at the very least a sympathizer. Someone who goes out of their way to procure Acturin for you, when a simple Avada Kedavra would suffice…I think it’s safe to say this won’t be their last attempt.” His words hung heavily in the air of the hospital room. “Therefore, I’ve decided, to ensure your protection, a fellow Auror will be assigned to your person. They will remain at your side around-the-clock.”

Before Harry could even begin to protest, Robards held up a silencing hand and said curtly, “I know you may think yourself fully capable of defending yourself—and, as I said before, you really are one of my best Aurors, Harry—but even the best of the best need help at times. Especially after last night.”

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

Until Ron, from where he still stood at Harry’s bedside, one arm wrapped protectively around the hunched form of his girlfriend, said, eyes steely, “I’ll do it. Harry, you’re my best mate, but Robards is right. Someone needs to be there to make sure what happened yesterday never happens again.” His gaze lifted to Robards and he repeated, determination hardening his usually so playful features, “I’ll do it.”

But Robards simply shook his head. “As much as I appreciate the offer, Auror Weasley, I’ve already made my decision on the matter. The case you and Mr. Potter were working on before all this happened, regarding the lunatic going round, hexing all those whose blood isn’t ‘pure’—it’s simply far too important to be put on hold. And, before you suggest it, I do not want to give the case to anybody else, just so that’s clear.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but Robards was already continuing, “My decision on the matter is final, Auror Weasley. However, I did make certain Auror Potter’s new escort is someone whose skill level might match his.” And then, much to Harry’s horror, and Ron’s horror, and, judging by his expression, Malfoy’s horror as well, the Head Auror turned to face the blond Slytherin still standing rooted to the spot across the room.

“I have picked Auror Malfoy for the job.”

* * *

The room descended in chaos; suddenly everyone was talking at once, protesting and insisting Weasley should be the one to safeguard Potter, not _Draco_ , who’d only ever wanted to hurt their glorious Saviour, who couldn’t possibly be trusted with a job of such weightiness. Draco knew he ought to be offended, but the insults passed through one ear and out the other. No, he was far too shocked to be anything as normal as offended.

Because…he had just been assigned to…to _Potter_. As in, 24/7, round the clock, day and night.

He couldn’t quite decide whether that was panic or excitement flooding his mind.

Nope. Definitely panic.

When the room had quieted down again to some degree, it was Weasley’s incensed voice that thundered through the room. “You can’t _possibly_ think it a good idea to have _Malfoy_ guard Harry! He’d murder Harry himself before defending him against some bloodthirsty killer.”

And just like that, Draco’s senses returned, and he opened his mouth to shoot back an insult of his own. But before he had the chance, Robards fixed Weasley with a glare so scathing even the hot-headed Gryffindor winced. “Weasley, that is _quite_ enough! I’m well aware of yours and Auror Malfoy’s past quarrels, but such accusations will not be levelled against a fellow Auror, not as long as you work for me, understand? Auror Malfoy has been nothing but an asset to the department. You’d do well to remember that.”

Weasley didn’t appear at all placated, but still he shut his mouth and averted his gaze. Had he still not been so shell-shocked by Robards’ most recent verdict, Draco would have been impressed. The man wasn’t Head Auror for nothing.

“Now,” Robards said. “There are still plenty of things I need to get done today, and I’m sure you all do to, so I’ll make this short. Auror Malfoy will watch over Auror Potter until the would-be assassin is identified and detained. Once Auror Potter is discharged from St. Mungo’s, I suggest Auror Malfoy take up temporary residence at Potter’s flat, after all, it’s entirely possible the culprit might try to get to him that way. Neither of you are required to come to work this week, not as long as Potter’s still recovering.” He paused, glancing from Draco to Potter. “I trust you two can maintain a professional, civil partnership for the duration of the matter?”

Draco waited for Potter to nod, looking dazed, before offering a curt nod as well. The Gryffindor hadn’t said a single word since Robards declared Draco would now become his constant companion, and he wasn’t sure whether to take that as a good or a bad sign.

Robards didn’t look pleased, but his scowl had eased slightly, and he nodded as well. “Good. Now that that’s settled, I really must be off.” He glanced at Potter. “Don’t rush the recovery, understand, Potter? You’re no use to anyone dead.” And with that, he turned on his heel, strode past Draco with a minuscule nod, and disappeared out the door.

Once the Head Auror was gone, all eyes of Potter’s friends shifted to Draco, most of which were narrowed and looking far from pleased. Usually, pissing off so many Gryffindors at once would have made Draco’s day. But today wasn’t a usual sort of day.

Thankfully, Potter’s Saviour-worshipping Healer said then, “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m going to have to ask everyone to leave. We really shouldn’t overwhelm Mr. Potter, not when he just woke up. A few of you can stay, but no more than two at a time, please.”

There were grumbles and complaints, but eventually everyone except Granger and Weasley—what a shock—shuffled out the room, even Healer Hodkinson and Blaise, who needed to go gather some potions to give Potter now that he was awake, the latter of which shot Draco one last probing look before exiting the room. Draco, however, found himself lingering, unsure whether to leave as well, or stay. After all, his newest assignment was, as of a few minutes ago, to stay at Potter’s side at all times.

When Weasley noticed Draco’s lingering presence, the redhead scowled. “Piss off, Ferret-Face. We’re trying to have a private discussion, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Draco’s mouth was already open, an insult at the ready. But then Potter reached out for his best friend, patting his shoulder comfortingly, like a mother appeasing her moody child. “Ron, it’s fine. He’s supposed to stay with me 24/7, remember? Just…talk quietly, I guess.”

Draco blinked in surprise, but Potter didn’t look his way. In fact, he looked as though he was very determinedly _not_ looking anywhere near Draco. He didn’t know what to make of Potter’s words. Had it simply been an attempt to prevent yet another fight between his best mate and childhood-rival, or had Potter been… _helping_ Draco?

Draco shook his head slightly. No, the former. Definitely the former.

And so, he hovered there awkwardly as Granger, Weasley and Potter conversed in hushed tones, every so often throwing blatant glances over at Draco, only to then turn back around and start whispering all the more vehemently.

When they were done, Weasley’s expression had, if possible, darkened further. Granger, on the other hand, simply looked tired, her lips a thin line of worry as she glanced from Potter to Draco, then back at Potter. Even her usually so bushy hair had lost a bit of its bounciness. And the Savior…he looked nervous. Yes, that was the only word Draco could think to describe Potter’s tight-lipped expression. Not that Draco could blame him.

“Malfoy,” he said, sounding strained, as though uttering Draco’s surname were some impossible feat of fortitude. “Err—a word?”

Draco didn’t let his surprise show, instead simply nodding once. He waited until Granger and Weasley had traversed the room, pointedly ignoring the glower the latter shot him in passing. Then the door closed behind him and silence fell, and Draco found himself suddenly very alone with Potter.

“Err,” Potter began, rubbing the back of his neck, emerald eyes full of uncertainty. “So. About this newest…arrangement.”

Draco cleared his throat. “Neither of us have much of a choice on the matter, Potter, so let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we, and get right to it. I promise I’ll leave you alone and not stick my nose in your private business, so long as you offer me the same courtesy. This only has to be difficult if we make it so. I’ve already talked with Healer Hodkinson, he said they need to administrate a few more potions and run a few more tests, but you should be discharged by late afternoon. So, if it’s alright with you, while they do so, I’ll go gather my belongings and Apparate them to your flat. After all, I doubt the murderer will manage to sneak in here with your Gryffindor posse just outside the door.”

Potter watched him, mouth slightly agape, but then nodded, and the look of sheer bewilderment still etched into his features made Draco want to shout a someone, preferably Potter. “Alright,” Potter said. “Agreed. Do you, err, need my address?”

“Why, yes, Potter, shockingly, that would be of help.”

Potter flushed but gave Draco the address, and just like that, it was time to go. Yet Draco, once again, found himself hesitating.

“Yes?” Potter asked, and Draco gritted his teeth. The man could be the most oblivious little git on the planet, but of course the instant Draco faltered even for a second, he immediately took notice.

“Nothing, Potter,” Draco snapped. “Do at least try and remember the agreement, will you? I don’t bother you, you don’t bother me. It’s simple enough even you should be able to understand.” And without allowing himself another moment of indecision, he turned and strode out the door, all the while lamenting the horrid mess he’d gotten himself into.

And, as per usual, it was all Potter’s fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading the first few chapters of "no need to panic"...there's a lot more to come! Feel free to comment or leave kudos if you've liked the story so far.
> 
> Also: My current plan is to try to post a new chapter every Sunday, but schoolwork is picking up at the moment, so some may be shorter than others and vice versa!


	4. when in doubt, have some Thai

Just as Malfoy had promised, Harry was discharged that afternoon. Healer Hodkinson had shoved about ten different potions into his arms before he’d let Harry leave, prattling on and on about how jealous his wife would be when he told her he’d gotten to meet _the_ Harry Potter, and how his ten-year-old daughter had a huge crush on Harry despite having never actually met him before.

All the while, Malfoy had stood a few steps behind Harry, arms crossed, an amused little twinkle in his grey eyes as he’d silently watched Harry be bombarded. Harry had glared at him in response. However, said glare held strong for the totality of about two seconds, before it dissolved at the grin Malfoy shot back.

It was odd; when Robards had first voiced his intentions for Malfoy to be the one looking after Harry, staying at his side all day, every day, until this whole mess blew over, Harry had searched within himself for any hint of anger similar to that which Ron had demonstrated. After all, it was _Malfoy,_ for Merlin’s sake. Yet all Harry had been able to dig up was an unusual feeling of…placidity, if you will. Sure, he wasn’t entirely thrilled with the notion of the former Slytherin babysitting him, much less living at his flat. But it bothered him much less than he’d expected it to. Which made no sense whatsoever, seeing as he really ought to be the opposite of calm when faced with the idea of _Draco Malfoy_ actually _living with him._

Once it was time to finally leave, Harry had said goodbye to his friends, hugging Lavender, Neville and Luna farewell, seeing as all three of them had flights to catch and would likely not manage to return to Britain any time soon. Ron had been busy glowering at Malfoy throughout it all, who, true to his word, had kept his distance, leaving Harry the privacy he’d promised that morning.

When everyone had left and it was only Harry, Ron, Hermione and Malfoy left in the hallway, Hermione frowned and said, “Look, Harry, I know you don’t like this. None of us do. But Malfoy’s here to make sure that, if you ever do let your guard down, it doesn’t result in your death. That doesn’t mean anyone is undermining your competence, or saying you aren’t skilled enough to defend yourself. It’s just like Robards said; everyone needs a bit of help every once in a while. So, promise me you’ll comply? That you’ll stay with Malfoy at all times, even if he irritates you?”

Harry had known Hermione was worried about him. She always was, even when he wasn’t in any apparent danger, same with Ron. That was just the sort of person she was—always there, always trying to help. Harry’s chest went warm and fuzzy, and he enveloped his best friend in a tight hug. “I promise, Mione. Please don’t worry so much. Everything’ll be fine.”

When they drew apart, Harry looked to Ron, who wasn’t glaring anymore. He was pale again, and Harry immediately wrapped him in a hug as well. “Honestly, you guys. I’ll be fine.” He grinned. “I have a bodyguard now, remember?”

And just like that, Ron was back to grumbling, and even Hermione’s face looked a little less drawn. “Take care, Harry,” she said. “And remember your promise.”

Malfoy was silent as they traversed the hospital, gaze trained on the white floor below as they marched towards the exit. Once they were in the lobby, Harry turned to face the Slytherin and said, “Side-Along?”

Malfoy pursed his lips, eyeing Harry’s outstretched hand as though it carried the plague. And, in Malfoy’s eyes, Harry figured, that could very well be an accurate representation. It wasn’t that long ago, after all, that Malfoy was standing over Harry’s disfigured face at Malfoy Manor, pale and wide-eyed, forced to choose between his family and what was right, while Lucius and Bellatrix hovered just a few feet away. For the longest time, they’d been on opposite sides of the war, even if Malfoy ultimately had for some reason decided to change sides during the Battle of Hogwarts.

So, Harry hadn’t spent much time considering how Malfoy must feel about this whole situation, but now that he actually thought about it, he couldn’t imagine the blond was delighted either. Did he still hate Harry as he had in school? Harry had long since stopped hating the Slytherin, and although their relationship still wasn’t near friendly, he’d always made it a point to greet Malfoy whenever they passed each other back at the office.

The war was over. It was high time they stopped behaving otherwise.

So, he held out his hand expectantly, and he waited. Harry watched as an array of different emotions flashed across the other’s face, most of which were immediately reigned back in and hidden behind that veil of apparent cold disinterest. But not before Harry glimpsed the look of abject surprise that flared in Malfoy’s grey eyes as he stared down at Harry’s hand. 

For a moment, Harry thought he was going to refuse. Sneer like he’d always done back at Hogwarts, spit some disparaging remark about how Harry wasn’t worthy of Side-Along Apparating with a _Malfoy_ , and Disapparate without another word.

But then Draco Malfoy took Harry’s outstretched hand, eyes fixed resolutely downwards, and Apparated them away.

~~~

Harry had chosen his apartment because, for one, he liked the location, so close to the Ministry that, were the sudden urge to overtake him, he could walk there every morning in less than ten minutes. Secondly, there was a bloody brilliant Thai place just a few blocks down, the very same one Hermione and Ron had brought takeaway from the night before Harry’s birthday. And thirdly, because, with the help of Dean’s artistic ingenuity, he’d managed to decorate it in a way that looked almost exactly like the Gryffindor common room back at Hogwarts.

Of course, the moment Malfoy realized that last fact, his eyes went wide and he started spluttering as though someone had hexed him, robbing him of the ability to form coherent sentences. “Fucking hell, Potter, I knew you had no taste whatsoever—that much is painfully obvious in the way you dress—but _this_? Really? Everything is so…so _red_. It’s _atrocious_!”

Harry, instead of scowling, found himself chuckling slightly, and it obviously surprised Malfoy as much as it did himself, for the blond fixed his disbelieving gaze on Harry. “Potter, are you alright? Do you need to Apparate back to St. Mungo’s?”

“No,” Harry sighed, lips still twitching. “I just find your constant dramatics amusing, is all. You really ought to have considered becoming an actor. I could ask Lav to introduce you to a few directors, if you want.”

Malfoy simply stared at him in utter incredulity.

Harry snorted, and, without glancing back at Malfoy again, traversed the apartment to the kitchen. There, he opened the fridge, taking his time rifling through its contents, all the while humming under his breath the Weird Sisters song Ron had forced him to listen to the other day whilst the two Aurors filled out reports regarding their case.

Or rather, Ron’s case, now.

Before any further bitter thoughts regarding Harry being kicked off his own case could find their way into his mind, Harry busied himself retrieving a plate from the cupboard, ladling it with what was left of the fried rice.

“You want Thai, Malfoy?” Harry called over his shoulder. His stomach was already grumbling furiously, and although he’d only been at St. Mungo’s for a day, he was still eager to eat something that wasn’t, well, hospital food.

When, a full minute later, Malfoy still hadn’t answered, Harry turned back around again, already frowning. But then he took one look at Malfoy’s indisputably comical expression and couldn’t suppress a slight laugh. The Slytherin, in his pristine black suit and expertly tousled silver blond hair, fit with the look of Harry’s apartment about as well as a stray dog in a five-star hotel. He looked about that comfortable standing there, surrounded by Gryffindor colours, as well.

“No Thai, then, I take it?”

Malfoy blinked, and shut his previously agape mouth. “Please, Potter,” he drawled, but his tone was void of its usual superiority, instead sounding oddly strangled. “I’d rather starve before eating the greasy filth muggles call food.”

Harry shrugged and pulled a fork out of one of the kitchen drawers. “Suit yourself.”

He proceeded to stroll over to the fireplace, and he plopped down on his favourite armchair before digging into the rice. It didn’t matter it wasn’t fresh—it still tasted divine, and Harry sighed contentedly as he shoved yet another forkful of the heavenly food into his mouth.

“Get a room, Potter,” Malfoy said, but there was no real bite in his words. When Harry looked back up to where he still stood near the door, the blond appeared to be exceptionally uncomfortable, so much so that he had began fidgeting with his right sleeve.

Harry motioned at the armchair across from his. “You can sit, you know. None of the furniture will try to eat you, I promise. After all, this is your flat now, too, at least for the time being.”

Malfoy looked at him with that same flicker of surprise as before, but then he averted his gaze and hastily complied, and although he looked more like a stone statue perching there at the edge of the seat, back once again ramrod straight, it was better than standing awkwardly by the door.

They sat there in relatively tense silence for a few minutes more, Harry silently eating his Thai while Malfoy sat staring at the fireplace, evidently uneasy, when Harry finally decided enough was enough.

“So, Malfoy,” he said, keeping his voice light in an attempt at civil conversation. “I heard you cracked that case on that illegal potions ring recently. They’re a tricky bunch from what I heard, having managed to stay under the radar for so long. So, yeah, err, good work.”

Malfoy fixed his grey eyes on Harry, lips twisting strangely. Then, however, he inclined his head once, quickly looking back to the fireplace. “Err…thank you. You’re not half bad yourself.”

Harry lifted his eyebrows, both taken aback and amused by the unexpected compliment. “Thanks. I just really like the work, I guess. After the war, I wasn’t sure whether becoming an Auror was the right idea for me anymore, but now I’m really glad I stuck with it. Might be a lot of work, but at the end of the day I can’t picture myself doing anything else.”

Malfoy nodded, unease gone for a moment. “Me too. It’s something I wanted to do since I was a child, to be honest. A bit of a childhood dream of mine, if you will. Not that I actually thought I’d get to do it. Not with my…circumstances.” Harry strongly suspected those circumstances had a name, one that began with Lucius and ended with Malfoy. But he stayed quiet and let his former rival talk. “Anyway, after the war, I wanted to do something I liked. Something that would…help. So, I did.” Suddenly, the Slytherin froze, and when his eyes found Harry’s his familiar sneer had returned—as though he’d realized just who it was he’d started to open up to, if only for an instant. “Of course, compared to the Boy Who Lived, I’m nothing, but I like to think I’m good at what I do, nonetheless.”

Harry was surprised once again when neither Malfoy’s snooty sneer nor haughty tone triggered the usual wave of anger. But, no. The schoolboy rivalry, the insults, the sneers, that was all strictly in the past. They were both capable, responsible adults now.

So, Harry simply said, “I never claimed you weren’t. Obviously, you are, otherwise Robards wouldn’t have assigned you to me.” He stood, and Malfoy looked up from where he’d once again fixed his gaze on the empty fireplace, eyes wary. Harry stretched out a hand. “Look, I know we’ve never really gotten along. But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, if you are, too. I think we’ve both outgrown such childish petulance, right?”

It was a challenge, of sorts, and judging by Malfoy’s narrowed eyes, he realized that, too. But he pursed his lips and, for the second time that day, took Harry’s hand. His fingers were cold, but when he briefly shook Harry’s hand, that same feeling of content came washing back over the dark-haired Gryffindor.

“Truce?”

Malfoy nodded, his expression oddly pensive. “Truce.”

They let go of each other’s hands. Malfoy sat back in his armchair, and although his posture was still slightly stiff and his long legs were crossed primly, Harry was glad he was finally relaxing a bit, even as the Slytherin grumbled, “Just so we’re clear, Potter, this does not mean I’m going to stop complaining about your taste in décor, nor that you’re _ever_ going to get me to put even a forkful of that nauseating muggle fodder in my mouth, is that understood?”

And Harry laughed despite himself, focusing his attention back on his half-eaten platter of rice. “Yes, Malfoy. Understood.”

* * *

Draco had known, of course, that Potter would never manage to keep his soulmark hidden from the press, but when he opened his copy of the Daily Prophet the next morning only to read the headlines ‘HARRY POTTER’S SOULMARK CONFIRMED: IT’S A _D_!’, he still very nearly choked on the half-burnt piece of toast he’d just taken a bite out of.

Potter—who sat on the opposite side of the table, currently busy lathering his own piece of toast with what, at any other point in time, Draco would have called him out for as a truly obtuse amount of jam—shot Draco an alarmed look as the Slytherin proceeded to have a coughing fit nearly as awful as the one Potter had had in that alley the other night. Only, of course, minus the blood.

“Alright there, Malfoy?” he asked. “Need some water?”

Draco, whose eyes had started to tear up at the sheer force of his coughing fit, shook his head, managing to inhale long enough to stop from suffocating. He swallowed and cleared his throat, finally recovering enough to shoot another disparaging look down at the newspaper article. Front page, naturally, surpassing even the four-month anniversary of a breakout in Azkaban that led to many convicted war-criminals getting free. Fortunately, Lucius Malfoy had not been one of them—Draco had checked the instant news of the escape got out—but that was hardly very placating.

Potter, too, shifted his gaze to the newspaper, and immediately a scowl creased his usually so smooth features. It was not aimed at the Azkaban-breakout article. This was, Draco realized with an odd pang, the angriest he’d seen Potter since, well, Hogwarts. And said anger wasn’t even directed at Draco.

“For fuck’s sake!” Potter growled, snatching up the article before Draco could read any further. His emerald eyes scanned the text, narrowing further after every line. Finally, he threw the newspaper back on the table, making the cutlery rattle ominously. “Can’t they bloody well leave me be? Just _one_ week without appearing on the front page, that’s all I ask for!”

Draco, who might have been amused by Potter’s frustrations were it not for the humongous letter _D_ shining up at him from the headline, took that as an opportunity to pick the newspaper back up himself, following Potter’s example and quickly scanning it for anything significant. All it was, was a big picture of Potter, surrounded by his friends in what looked like a pub, the large, cursive D on his right wrist unmistakable, plus a few quotes by eyewitnesses who’d been at the pub that night, as well. Other than that, the article mainly focused on Potter’s overall brilliance, and how every witch in Britain whose name began with a D was now surely on tenterhooks with excitement.

But it was the picture that drew Draco’s attention. It had likely been snapped right before Potter’s latest near-death-experience, he realized. Draco had only ever seen Potter as genuinely comfortable as he was in the picture when in the company of his posse, and while that usually would have irked Draco to no end, he found himself silently smiling down at picture-Potter’s humongous grin.

Fortunately, there was no mention of what else had occurred that night, nor of Potter’s brief stay at St. Mungo’s. Draco was glad the press hadn’t gotten wind of it. With Potter’s would-be murderer still running loose, such coverage would do far more damage than any actual good.

Potter was still muttering under his breath, looking peeved, when Draco set the newspaper aside again. His eyes briefly lifted to Potter’s right wrist, where he now knew a _D_ was hidden underneath the sleeves of Potter’s—obviously red, how could it not have been red—pullover, etched onto which was the logo of some muggle sports team.

And naturally, at that exact moment, Potter just _had_ to look up.

His eyes narrowed at Draco and he wrenched his right sleeve down further. “Why does everyone care so much about my bloody soulmark? Everyone has them, right? So why make such a fuss about mine!”

Draco’s forehead furrowed, and he set down his cup of Darjeeling. “You know exactly why, Potter. Because you’re their Saviour. They bloody adore you.” He’d meant for it to sound derogatory, but the words came out with no real harshness to them at all.

Potter simply huffed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “If they love me so much, then why can’t they bloody well leave me be for five minutes? _This_ —” He gestured at the newspaper. “I _hate_ it. It’s my life, and they’re discussing it as though it’s the bloody weather. Read this line, for example: _Listen up, single witches, Wizarding Britain’s ‘Number One Bachelor’ is ripe for the picking_!”

Again, were the circumstances any different, Draco would have snorted at that truly ridiculous line. Who the hell was printing this crap in the _Daily Prophet_? Instead, though, he said, shrugging, “Price of fame, Potter. You think this doesn’t concern them; they think everything about you concerns them. That’s simply how it is. Nothing you can do about it.”

Potter crinkled his nose at Draco, emerald eyes accusatory as he replied sharply, “You can’t honestly expect me to just be okay with it. How would you feel if they suddenly started printing things about _your_ soulmark on the front page of the Daily Prophet for the entire country to read?”

And, just like that, Draco stiffened in his seat, any lingering amusement forgotten. A familiar cold calm settled over his features as he schooled them into perfect inscrutability. “I thought we agreed not to stick our noses in each other’s business, Potter. My soulmark does not concern you. Leave it be.”

But Potter’s gaze didn’t drop, emerald stare triumphant. “That’s exactly what I mean! You already get defensive when I mention your soulmark. Now imagine the entirety of Wizarding Britain talking about it. You can’t simply _be okay_ with it.”

“It’s different,” Draco found himself snapping, suddenly all too aware of the fact that his soulmark was _right there_ on the table, concealed from Potter only by a flimsy bit of fabric. He was beginning to panic a bit, his heart already racing in his ribcage, drumming a furious beat.

_Not suspicious at all_ , a voice at the back of Draco’s mind whispered, sounding a disturbing amount like Blaise, or maybe even Pansy. But, at that moment, Draco coldn’t care less whether he was acting suspicious or not. This was exactly what Draco had feared would happen; they’d get into a row and one way or another, Potter would discover what had grown to become Draco’s greatest secret.

“No, Malfoy, it’s not different at all,” the Gryffindor said heatedly. “I’m allowed to react like this. In fact, _you_ reacted a lot worse during your father’s trial when they were spewing nonsense about you and your family in the Daily Prophet. And, before you say anything, no, I’m not suggesting the circumstances are the same. But they wrote an article about you once—I have to live with this _constantly_.”

Lucius’ trial was still a sore subject for Draco, as he was certain Potter must know. He gritted his teeth, a peaceful breakfast long since forgotten. “Oh, yes, boo-hoo, Potter. You have my deepest condolences.”

He expected Potter to retaliate with a comment of his own. But the usually so quick to anger Gryffindor simply sighed, angry scowl thawing into a weary sort of frown that had Draco’s anger melting away as well. “Look, I’m sorry I brought up the trials. I…know that was hard for you. It’s just… I really wish I could do something for once and not have to worry about what the whole world thought of it. Ever since I left the Dursleys, it’s been this way, and, well, I know it’s a bit naïve, but I always thought once I’d fulfilled the prophecy and killed Voldemort, things would get…easier.”

Draco didn’t know who these Dursley-people were, but he shelfed the question for a different time, instead fixing his attention back down to his steaming cup of Darjeeling. He took a sip, and the silence was heavy, but much less awkward than it had been the day before.

“I’m…sorry, too,” he said at last, flinching slightly as Potter’s head snapped back up, emerald eyes wide with shock. “Back at Hogwarts, I always envied you a bit. You got so much attention without ever even trying, and me… Well.” He gave a mirthless laugh, mind replaying memories upon memories of watching Potter with his troupe of fans, smiling and laughing like he had not a care in the world.

Potter lifted an eyebrow, but Draco could tell the gesture wasn’t derisive, but questioning. “But you were popular, too. Especially with the Slytherins. They adored you.”

This made Draco smile sadly. He may not miss Hogwarts much, not after all the horrid things he’d witnessed there in his seventh year under the Carrows, and definitely not after the battle—but late nights in the Slytherin common room, chatting and laughing and playing games under the faint glow of the lake outside with all his friends, were still one of his fondest memories. There had been no judgement there, no light and no dark side. Just children enjoying their childhood in a world that sought to destroy said joy.

“That they did,” Draco said softly, looking back down into the dark depths of his tea. “But no one else even took me seriously.”

_You_ didn’t take me seriously.

There was another wave of silence, and when Draco looked up and saw Potter looking at him thoughtfully, a sad frown tugging at his lips, he for once wished he could make that frown disappear instead of always causing it.

Draco shook his head, as though that might rid him the depressing thoughts that had begun to cloud in. “Anyway, what was that you said yesterday about letting bygones be bygones? Let’s not talk about all that anymore.” He gave a smirk and picked up the newspaper again. “Says here your smile ‘melts a witch’s heart faster than the breath of a Chinese Fireball’. So, a little more of that and a little less of those ridiculous puppy eyes, yeah?”

Potter snorted, yanking the article from Draco’s hands, but with hardly any real force. “Oh, sod off, Malfoy.”

Draco smirked wider. “Can’t, unfortunately. Head Auror’s orders, you see. Not that I wouldn’t love to leave this Gryffindor-themed hellhole…” He ducked just in time to dodge the grape Potter threw his way.

The rest of their breakfast was actually, genuinely…nice. They talked a bit more, mostly about their respective work at the DMLE, and Quidditch, of course. Draco could have started sobbing in relief when they’d managed to sit through the entire rest of the meal without a single mention of the war, the trials, Hogwarts, or, god forbid, _soulmarks_.

But, as he’d said oftentimes before, someone really did have it out for him. And so, while he followed Potter into the kitchen, watching under a furrowed brow as the Gryffindor started loading their dirty dishes into some ghastly muggle contraption he’d called a ‘dishwasher’, Draco’s luck shrivelled up.

Potter had been glancing over his shoulder towards Draco quite a few times now, and so Draco snapped, growing increasingly frustrated by the so completely and utterly _Gryffindor_ unsubtlety, “Out with it, Potter. What’s bothering our divine Saviour now?”

Potter grimaced a bit at the title, which Draco had used on purpose, knowing how much he disliked it. Potter straightened up, but suddenly he looked a lot more embarrassed than Draco was comfortable with. An embarrassed Potter was never good, because then that in turn made Draco blush, and _Malfoys simply did not blush_.

“It’s just…,” Potter said. “About your soulmark.”

Draco promptly stopped worrying about his blush. He tried to suppress his panic but failed. “My—” Fuck, why was his voice suddenly so squeaky? “What about it, Potter? We agreed, no meddling.”

Potter flushed darker. “Yes, I know. I won’t be mad or anything if you don’t want to answer, it’s just… The way you were acting made it seem as though…as though…”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , now he’d gone and done it. He’d acted like a moron in front of Potter, blushing and panicking at the slightest hint of trouble, and now Potter fucking knew. He knew Draco had Potter’s name on his wrist, he knew he was—

“As though you’d already found your soulmate. And I was thinking, if it’s not too much to ask, whether you could, err, tell me a bit about her.” Potter was staring at the floor, as though the kitchen tiles were the most interesting thing invented since Quidditch. “You see, I don’t really know a lot about this whole soulmate-business, and judging by the way you reacted when I mentioned your soulmark, it seemed to me as though you had already found whoever it was whose name is on your wrist. I honestly don’t mean to pry, I’d just really like to understand what it is I’ve gotten myself into, you know?”

Oh, bloody hell.

Under the sheer cataclysm of relief that flooded him at that moment, making him feel light-headed and giddy, Draco felt like either laughing hysterically or sobbing. _Her_. Merlin, Potter was still as oblivious as he’d been back at school. But, for once, Draco was grateful for it. For a moment there, he really had thought Potter had figured it out.

His heartbeat returned back to normal again and he said, tone neutral, “Potter, if you want details about a healthy, perfect soulmate-relationship, then go ask Granger and Weasley. I’m sure they’d be more than glad to help. You’re correct to assume I’ve found my soulmate. But we…didn’t work out. Our paths separated a long time ago.” He gave a dark laugh. “Trust me, she certainly wants nothing from me.”

The pitifully sympathetic look on Potter’s face only strengthened Draco’s urge to burst out into maniacal, uncontrollable laughter—or, again, sob. But he stayed perfectly still under Potter’s gaze, cautious not to create any more suspicion. Potter might not have figured it out now, but that didn’t mean Draco was safe.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Potter said, and Draco was surprised to hear genuine compassion in his tone. “And you’re sure, one day, it won’t…?”

Draco shook his head resolutely. “No. I mean it, she doesn’t want me like that. Or any way, really. But it’s fine. I’ve long since made peace with the situation. There will be other options down the road, I’m sure.” Only he wasn’t. He’d tried it before, searching for someone who might fill the void. But each time, it had always gone up in smoke. Draco knew it was partially his own fault.

The other part of it was Potter’s.

Potter nodded again and wordlessly finished loading his dish-launderer.

Afterwards, Draco locked himself in the guest room Potter had offered him the day before, and for the first time since this whole Potter’s-bodyguard fiasco started, Draco pushed back his right sleeve. He stayed there, staring at the neatly written _Harry James Potter,_ for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for reading!! Feedback is always appreciated!


	5. taking a trip down memory lane—aka Knockturn Alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!   
> First of all, I just need to thank all of you lovely people for all the kudos and wonderful comments I've gotten so far!! They validate me and my writing in ways you can't possibly imagine, so thank you for that!  
> I've decided to post two chapters today, for the reasons that, one, I am a very impatient individual with absolutely no self-control, and two, I'm not entirely happy with how Chapter 5 turned out in the end. But that's life as a writer for you--self-doubt is your best friend.  
> So, yeah, enough chitchat. Have fun reading, and I hope you like it!

Harry had been trapped inside his own apartment with Draco Malfoy of all people for a day now.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected to happen, to be honest. Harry truly did believe Malfoy had changed—after all, the war had changed them all—and although he was certainly still an arrogant, contemptuous little arsehole, it wasn’t like Harry expected to be murdered in his sleep. Err, not by Malfoy, that is.

But if Harry was being completely honest with himself, he _had_ expected there to be a lot more…issues. Definitely more fighting, for one, with Malfoy spewing insults right along the lines of ‘half-blood scum’ or ‘attention-seeking, muggle-loving imbecile’ or—Harry’s personal favourite; the Dursleys had always _loved_ this one—‘one great big monumental screwup in all aspects of life’. Yet in reality the most hurtful thing Malfoy had called him so far was an annoying Gryffindork with no style whatsoever, and even that he’d paraphrased.

It was all very odd indeed.

It was still early afternoon, and Harry, in his intense and all-consuming boredom, had begun looking over a few old case files from when he’d only just started working the field. Malfoy had locked himself in Harry’s guest room directly after their late breakfast and hadn’t come out since, not even for lunch, for which Harry had ordered pizza. (If he was going to have to laze around home all day, might as well do it right.) He’d saved the Slytherin a few slices but, knowing Malfoy would likely just scowl at the ‘disgusting muggle sick’, Harry fully intended to eat them himself later that day.

He’d just started reading through an especially interesting case Ron and he had gotten just weeks after having finished their training, when a tap sounded on the window across from where Harry sat on his favourite armchair. He looked up to see a tawny-feathered barn owl sitting on the windowsill, an impatient look in its beady black eyes.

Harry stood and made his way towards the window, wondering whether it was one of his friends checking up on him. That seemed likely. At times, he still found himself questioning what he’d done to deserve such an incredible, caring bunch of people as his friends.

However, once he’d retrieved the letter, given the barn owl a treat for its troubles, and plopped back down in his armchair, Harry was surprised to find the wax seal of the Head Auror stamped onto the paper, the gold wax catching the sunlight with a twinkle. He was quick to (more or less carefully) open the letter, and once he’d scanned its contents, the day suddenly seemed a lot less boring.

“Malfoy!” he shouted, a grin already twisting its way across his face. “Malfoy, come here. Robards wrote!”

A few moments passed, but then the door to the guest room opened and out shuffled a scowling, grumbling Malfoy. He immediately glared at Harry, ignoring the letter still gripped tightly in his hands. “I am not a _pet_ to be _summoned_ , Potter. What if I’d been sleeping?”

Harry was too excited to be annoyed by the Slytherin’s haughty tone. “Who sleeps at one in the afternoon, Malfoy? Besides, you obviously weren’t. And this is important. _Robards wrote_.”

Malfoy didn’t look impressed. He crossed his arms. “Yes. So you said.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the disgruntled blond, but took one great big step towards him, ignoring how Malfoy practically fell backwards in a botched effort to get away from Harry, eyes downright panicked, (honestly, Harry knew they’d never been friends or anything, likely never would be, but he didn’t actually have the plague—why did Slytherins always have to be so over-the-top all the time?) and instead shoving the letter in Malfoy’s face. “Look. He says they’ve got a lead. Apparently, Acturin is so hard to come by, that there are only four places in London that sell it at all, one of which went out of business in the spring, while the other two haven’t had it in stock all year. That leaves a single possible supplier—Renaults and Co., over in Knockturn Alley. Robards says they’re going to go question the owner later today.”

Malfoy blinked, and instantly that detached, indecipherable mask was back as he fixed the letter with an unreadable stare. “Renaults and Co., you said?”

“Yeah. You know the place?”

Malfoy wrinkled his pert nose. Harry was silently glad for the familiar sneer—the earlier panic in Malfoy’s eyes, accompanied by something else, something Harry couldn’t quite put a name to, had been _weird_ , to say the least. “Know is one word for it. But yes, I’m…familiar with Renaults and Co. My father used to do business with them. The owner, Philomena Craigs, is an old family friend of sorts.”

Harry winced. Oh, great. Any friend of Lucius’ was sure to be unpleasant. Very possibly murderous, too. Like Harry needed any more of that. “In that case, you should accompany them. The owner might be more cooperative if you’re there.”

Malfoy lifted a single blond eyebrow. “That may be so, but there’s one slight hitch in your brilliant plan. Lest you’ve forgotten, I’m stuck playing babysitter for _you_.”

“So?” Harry would _not_ stay cooped up in his flat all week, murderer or no. Otherwise, he’d go mad himself. “We’ll both go. With you and the other Aurors right there with me, no one’ll dare attack.”

It was a very reasonable idea indeed, in Harry’s opinion. Besides, the last assassination attempt had been quiet and out of the blue, so he doubted whoever was after him was going to try their luck with a handful of Aurors by his side at every step of the way, all on high alert. Plus, Harry now knew to be especially careful, whereas the poisoning had occurred when he’d had his guard down and least expected it.

But Malfoy immediately shook his silver blond head and said curtly, “Absolutely not.”

Harry stared at the Slytherin, incredulous. “Why not? It makes sense for you to be there. If you can manage to get the owner to talk, we’ll be a hell of a lot wiser than we are now. The sooner we find out who did this, the sooner it’ll all be over, and we can both go back to our lives. Isn’t that what you want? Stop being ‘stuck with me’?”

It was likely just his imagination, but Harry thought Malfoy actually flinched a bit at that last part. Yet the Slytherin’s typical mask quickly covered it up. His voice, however, was especially cool as he sneered in response, “Trust me, Potter, I would love nothing more. But I’d rather be rid of you because I did my job right and the culprit’s caught than because you’re _dead_.”

Harry blinked at the blond, taken aback. Yes, Malfoy was still sneering, his expression once again that of the spoiled rich kid from Hogwarts. But underneath all the open hostility, Harry thought the sentiment might have been…sincere. As though Malfoy genuinely didn’t want him to die, guard-duties aside.

The thought sent an inexplicable burst of warmth into his chest, and Harry found himself thinking yet again of that day at Malfoy Manor; Malfoy’s silver-grey eyes, wide and fearful and scared for once not only for himself but for his family as well. The Slytherin had studied Harry, eyes raking across his disfigured features as though they held the answers to the world, and Harry had known the moment the Malfoy heir stepped up to identify Harry that he’d recognized him. But then something had happened. Something had changed in the Slytherin’s wide-eyed gaze, if only for a millisecond, and something had flashed in his silver eyes—and he’d turned to his father and aunt and denied Harry’s identity.

Harry chose his next words carefully, unwilling to destroy the small but definite step forwards he felt they’d just made. “I appreciate the concern, Malfoy. No, really,” he insisted when the blond scoffed. “Honest, I do. It’s just…I can’t sit in my flat until the culprit is caught. Who knows how long that’ll be? It could be weeks. _Months_. I’ll end up jumping out of the window myself before they’re caught.” And then an idea came to him. “Look, what if I ask Robards? If he says no, I’ll stay here and won’t utter another word on the subject.” Malfoy snorted incredulously, but Harry persisted. “I promise. You won’t hear a single more complaint from me. At least, err, concerning Renaults and Co. _But,_ if he agrees and says it’s fine…we go. _Both_ of us.”

Malfoy was still sneering slightly, his arms folded tightly across his chest, but neither gesture was as hostile as it had been mere moments before. Harry felt a new surge of excitement; Malfoy wasn’t convinced yet, obviously, but he wasn’t _un_ convinced, either.

“Robards is Head Auror—if he says it’s safe, we can trust it is. Plus, you won’t get into any trouble if he’s already on board with the whole thing,” Harry continued. “All I’m asking is an hour or two. Come on, Malfoy, where’s your sense of adventure gone? It’ll be _fun_.”

Malfoy snorted, but Harry was glad for it when the tension previously spiking the blond’s shoulders faded. “ _Fun_. You say that now, Potter, only because you’ve never met Philomena Craigs before.” He lifted his chin slightly, sniffing primly. “And, just so you know, I am a very adventurous individual when I want to be. Just ask Pansy.”

Harry grinned. “I will. How about you invite her over sometime this week? After all, it looks like you’ll be staying here for a while.”

Malfoy pulled a face at the thought. “As if I’d ever invite her _here_. You think _my_ complaining about your décor is bad? Pansy’s set on becoming an actual fashion designer. Forget the murderer, she’d kill you herself for this atrocious array of eyesores.”

Harry crossed the living room to grab a biro, all the while chuckling despite himself, and penned a quick letter to Robards, telling him about Malfoy’s family connections to Craigs, and requesting they tag along. He conveniently left out all mention of Malfoy’s hesitance, making sure to emphasize what an asset the Slytherin would be to the investigation. When he was done, he folded it and headed back towards where the barn owl was still sitting more or less patiently by the windowsill.

“Here,” he said as he gave the owl the letter. “Make sure this gets to Head Auror Robards as fast as possible.”

The owl gave what might have been a nod, and then, with one big flap of its wings, launched into the sky to deliver Harry’s message.

~~~

The owl had obviously taken Harry’s request to heart, for less than a half hour later, it was back carrying yet another gold-sealed letter. Harry immediately hurried to get it, tearing it open and scanning its contents. And although it was clear Robards wasn’t entirely pleased with the idea either, Harry’s faith in Malfoy must have been persuading enough, for the Head Auror had ultimately agreed to the plan.

When Harry turned to where Malfoy sat by the fireplace, legs crossed, reading a thick, leather-bound book, the outturn must have been evident in his grin, for the Slytherin scowled darkly, shutting his book with a bang.

“If you get yourself killed, Potter, I’ll murder you myself. Is that clear?”

Harry couldn’t help but grin. “Crystal. Now, Side-Along?”

Malfoy looked at him funny. But then he shook his head and asked, voice familiarly scathing, “Don’t tell me you want to go _now_.” At Harry’s telltale expression, the blond groaned into his hands. “ _Of course_ you want to go now. You’re so bloody Gryffindor, Potter, I think I might just be sick.”

Harry offered him a quick grin, already busy pulling on a light jacket and his favourite pair of trainers, excitement taking hold of his every nerve once again. “Okay,” he said cheerily. “But can it wait? Robards agreed, so you have no reason to force me to stay.”

Malfoy again gave a theatre-worthy sigh, but in truth Harry didn’t think the Slytherin was all that annoyed. Much more likely, he was just being his usual overdramatic self, physically unable to _not_ argue with anything Harry said.

“Fine.” Malfoy flicked his wand once, and within the blink of an eye his dragon-hide boots had appeared on his feet, a cloak far heavier than Harry would think necessary on a mid-summer afternoon enveloping his shoulders. “But if you get yourself killed—”

Harry rolled his eyes and, before the blond could finish his threat, seized his hand and Apparated them to Knockturn Alley.

* * *

Draco was not happy.

First of all, how he’d let Potter convince him to take them both to Knockturn Alley of all places, even with the extra protection the other two Aurors working the case provided, was still a mystery to Draco. One moment, it had looked as though he’d win—because, honestly, how could he have foreseen that Robards would act so…so…so bloody _Gryffindor_ about the whole situation?—but then that damn letter had arrived and Potter had looked like he might just burst with joy. The nutter couldn’t be inside for a day. _A day_!

And then there was the whole convincing-Philomena-Craigs-not-to-hex-them-on-the-spot-business. Draco had only ever met the severe-looking shopkeeper a handful of times, when his father had brought him along after some back-to-school shopping over in Diagon. But even years later, he remembered how utterly terrifying the woman was, despite looking to be about a hundred. And Draco knew better than to think that particular impression had anything to do with the fact that he’d been a naive, easily intimidated child at the time.

Plus, if Potter already considered Lucius a raging blood purity-fanatic, he was sure to _love_ Philomena. On second thought, Draco mused, it was highly probable the shopkeeper wouldn’t even allow Potter to set foot in her store, not as a known half-blood with muggle ties.

Draco’s gaze slid to the two other Aurors, both currently deep in conversation with Potter, who all the while wore that god-awful smile. The one that brightened up his entire face, making him look a lot less weary than he usually did. Draco had never met either of the Aurors, but judging by their serious expressions and notable burliness, they seemed a reasonable choice for Robards to send with Potter. Draco briefly wondered how one might ask two complete strangers what their blood status was without getting beaten to a pulp, but then Potter turned to him, that blasted smile illuminating his eyes.

“Malfoy, come over here,” he said, beckoning him over, and Draco wasn’t even tempted to remind the idiot again not to summon him like a dog. Merlin, what was happening to him?

He sighed to himself and made his way over to the other three Aurors. Potter and he had had to wait at least ten minutes before the other two Aurors arrived—he’d warned Potter his overzealousness would get them exactly nowhere, but had the man listened, the bloody Gryffindor? No, of course not!—and when they had arrived a few minutes earlier, it had been Potter and Potter alone they’d approached immediately.

Over three years since the war, three years of redeeming himself and the Malfoy family name, three years of righting wrongs and solving problems for people just out of the goodness of his heart—and Draco still had to put up with this shit. It’d be downright laughable were it not so fucking insulting.

Both men regarded Draco through narrowed eyes, but the latter was too done to muster enough energy to snap back. Dealing with Potter had been taxing enough already, and all they’d done all day was sit around in the Gryffindor’s flat like a bunch of lazy flobberworms.

Apparently oblivious to the tension between the two Aurors and Draco, Potter said happily, “Guess what, Malfoy, Jennings here is a potions-genius, too! He spent two years apprenticing under some big-name potions Master in Germany before coming back here to become an Auror. To be honest, Malfoy, I always thought you might do that; become a potions Master, you know, like Snape. All grumpy and mysterious and anti-Gryffindor.” He chuckled. “You were certainly good enough for it.”

Draco couldn’t help but stare at Potter incredulously. Because while being compared to Severus Snape could be interpreted in two very conflicting directions, that last part…it had been a _compliment_. An actual, genuine, real-life compliment, from Potter, to him, Draco Malfoy. It must have, for Draco hadn’t been able to hear any undercurrents of sarcasm in the Gryffindor’s voice, and he didn’t think the man capable of such a Slytherin thing as subtle insults.

A gruff voice sounded from beside Potter, rudely yanking Draco from his wonder. “I liked the work, but in the end being an Auror was just more satisfying.” It was the slightly shorter of the two men that spoke—Jennings, likely—but he mustered Draco with a bit less hostility and added, “I apprenticed under Joachim Heind. Know the name?”

Immediately, Draco’s eyebrows went up. “ _Know the name_? Of course I know Heind! That study he did on the Death-Cap Draught was a gamechanger!” He found himself sizing up the bald-headed Auror more carefully, wondering how the hell the man had gotten _Joachim Heind_ to let him apprentice under such a renowned Master for an entire year. Why, pre-war Draco would have _killed_ for such a position.

Fortunately, Potter laughed then, and Draco’s attention instinctively flitted back to the darkhaired Gryffindor. “Not that I wouldn’t love talking about potions for a few hours, but we do have a shopkeeper to go question.” His green eyes found Draco. “Besides, the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go home.”

Potter had said something similar earlier, Draco recalled. Except this time… _we can go home_. We. Home. He definitely hadn’t used those words before. Potter likely hadn’t meant it like that, no, it had undoubtedly been a mere slip-up, a blip of the mind. And yet that didn’t stop Draco’s chest from becoming inexplicably tight and warm all of a sudden.

However, he forced himself to remain calm and composed, at least outwardly, and offered a stiff nod, falling into step behind Potter as he and the other two Aurors made their way down the alley to the small, dilapidated-looking shop with the silver-lettered, cherry-wood sign proclaiming in large cursive letters ‘Renaults and Co.’.

A shudder ran down Draco’s spine as his gaze took in the dark shop windows, overflowing with everything from vials in all shapes and colours to what seemed to be an actual jar of eyeballs. But it was all covered in a thick layer of dust, so much of it Draco could see it even from where he stood outside. The sight was harrowing, if only due to the fact that it looked as though absolutely nothing had changed in the many years since Draco’s first visit as a fearful First Year. That day, Lucius had said nothing more than that they’d be making a quick detour, and that Draco had better not embarrass him in front of Mrs. Craigs. And then he’d dragged his eleven-year-old son into the dark store.

Potter, of course, didn’t hesitate before walking right up to the shop door and entering, not looking back once. Not that Draco had hoped he would. However, Potter’s eagerness gave Draco no choice but to follow, thus robbing him of any opportunity to chicken out.

He wasn’t scared of much anymore, not after living in the same home as Voldemort, not after all he’d seen and been forced to do. The old Draco Malfoy, the one who’d been too much of a coward to show up to his duel with Potter in First Year—that Draco had been yet another casualty of the war. But, still, old fears were hard to ignore, especially when Lucius Malfoy was somehow involved.

Which, usually, he was.

The moment Draco crossed over the threshold, eliciting a dull sound from the rusty bell that hung ominously over their heads, yet another wave of nostalgia rolled over him—and not the good kind. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, but forced himself to adapt his usual pureblood-composure. He just wouldn’t look around. Yes, that’s it; he’d keep his eyes fixed resolutely ahead, and he’d speak to Philomena, and he’d convince her to help. And then they’d leave, and Draco would never ever set foot in Renaults and Co. ever again. No, scratch that—the entirety of Knockturn Alley would be off-limits from now to the day he died. Self-inflicted exile, of sorts. Perfect.

The four Aurors crowded into the narrow shop, made even smaller by the sheer amount of knickknacks and full or empty vials piled carelessly on every free space in the shop. There were no other customers, but Draco hadn’t expected there to be; even before Voldemort’s fall, when the trade of dark artefacts still flourished, not many had dared set foot in Renaults and Co.

Both Jennings and his partner were frowning at their surroundings, and while they admittedly, and commendably, did not let much of their unease show, neither quite managed to hide it completely. Potter, however, seemed downright giddy as he glanced around the shop, as though too eager to possibly even entertain the notion of being intimidated for once in his sodding life. And Draco wasn’t even exasperated anymore; the whole thing was just so very _Potter_.

“Out.”

Draco—and, he noted out of the corner of his eye, Potter as well—whirled to face the direction of the voice, sharp and cold as ice, and was not surprised in the least to find a tall, skeletal-looking woman standing in the doorway across the room, gripping a large jar of what appeared to be shrivelled tarantulas in her frail arms.

Beside Draco, Potter’s voice came, “Sorry, what?”

“Out.” Philomena didn’t even blink. Actually, now that Draco thought about it, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the woman blink before, not once. Her dark eyes jumped from Jennings, to his partner, to Draco. They remained for a while on Draco, and he was sure she must have recognized him—Malfoy-blond was hardly a common hair colour. But then she turned to glare at Potter, as though Draco was never there. “I said out, the lot of you. I have customers coming in twenty minutes, and I will not have a pack of filthy half-blood Aurors sullying my shop.”

Jennings began, “Now, see here—”

But Philomena only narrowed her eyes further and snapped before the mountain of a man could finish, “No. Out. I may have received the letter your Head Auror sent, but I never once implied I had agreed to his requests. My customers enjoy unconditional anonymity, and I will not sacrifice that just because a bunch of self-important Aurors wish for me to lighten their workload.”

There was what Draco could only describe as stunned silence. And then Draco’s blood began to boil.

Both Jennings and his partner had already started talking again, their expressions absolutely livid. Draco didn’t listen. Instead, his eyes bored into Philomena Craigs, and when he strode forwards, back straight, shoulders back, ever the haughty pureblood heir he’d been brought up to become, the shopkeeper’s eyes immediately swivelled to him. As did, he noticed, the eyes of everyone else in the room. But he didn’t give himself time to appreciate the attention, for when Draco spoke, his voice was cold as ice. Colder.

“Philomena. I wish I could say it’s a pleasure meeting you again after all this time, but I think this sort of situation warrants the truth rather than a heap of meaningless pleasantries.” The woman’s eyes narrowed, but Draco didn’t allow his mask to crack. “You and I both have no desire my companions and I stay any longer than strictly necessary, so I’m going to make this quick: There was an attempted murder the day before yesterday, one we recently discovered was carried out with the help of the poison known as Acturin. I’m sure you know the poison—nasty little bugger, quite painful to ingest, and ultimately also rather fatal—seeing as it was here in this very store said poison was bought. Now, we’d like to know who this mystery buyer was, when they bought the Acturin, and how much of it was sold. It’s rather urgent, too, so if you didn’t put up that much of a fight, it’d be appreciated. And,” he added when the woman opened her mouth, expression indignant, “before you decide to grace us with another series of uninspired insults, Philomena: none of what I just said was a request.”

The old shopkeeper glared at Draco, her attention on him and him alone as her eyes took him in from top to bottom; his dragon-hide boots, his dark suit, well-tailored and immaculate, his light hair, a few loose strands framing his face. Appearance wise, Draco was and always had been the epitome of pureblood grace, the perfect image of all a Malfoy should be. And under the old woman’s assessing eyes, he let his face fall back into the harsh sneer his father had always worn to complete the look, hardened his eyes into impenetrable stone, stood tall and proud and unbending to the likes of her.

Philomena scowled, and she spat, “What might your father say, if he knew you were seeking company with a pack of sanctimonious half-blood blood-traitors, boy? Do you think he’d be pleased? I imagine he’d be _so_ pleased, in fact, that you’d soon find yourself promptly without the family name you currently take such pleasure in defiling.”

Draco only replied, voice dry with disinterest, “Well, I suppose it’s rather fortunate for me then that he’s stuck in Azkaban for the rest of his life, isn’t it. Lucius’ actions caught up with him, and now he’s paying the price. If I were you, Philomena, I wouldn’t be so sure yours won’t soon do the same. Now, enjoy this little catching-up of ours as I might—we would appreciate an answer to our previous question, thank you very much, and soon.” He gave her his most Slytherin smile. “After all, you have customers coming in twenty minutes.”

The woman’s nostrils flared, eyes like blazing coals, illuminated with pure loathing. “How _dare_ you speak to me like that. How _dare_ you show your face in this shop at all anymore, boy, when you’re no better than a filthy mudblood yourself! Insolent and fickle, going against all your father stood for—”

Draco’s smile vanished, replaced by a glower as he said, voice dangerously low, “I’d rather be a ‘filthy mudblood’ than a clone of my father’s making. _All he stood for_ , as you so expertly phrased it, ultimately resulted in his lifelong imprisonment, in case you haven’t heard.”

The woman’s spindly fingers curled tightly around her jar of spiders as she hissed, “You went and betrayed not only the Dark Lord, but your family name and all it represents, boy, and yet you have the gall to come here and lecture _me_ about morality. You are utterly undeserving of the Malfoy title, a disgrace to pureblood tradition. A _disgrace_.”

Fury exploded through Draco, vibrating through his being until he was trembling under the force of it, until the anger thrumming through his veins was so all-overpowering that he wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to reply at all, too overwhelmed to form another sentence, much less one of the serene, unrufflable eloquence expected of a pureblood heir.

It wasn’t that Philomena’s words surprised him—no, he’d anticipated them the very moment Potter had suggested Draco try convincing the old shopkeeper to help them with the investigation. Rather, the opposite was true; he had known the words would come, as he had known they would since that day of the battle, since he defected from Voldemort’s side, from his father’s side, from the side he’d been brought up to choose always, no questions asked. At the time, the fact he might die trumped the idea of being scorned and reviled by his fellow purebloods for all eternity, but afterwards, as he’d sat with his mother on the crumbling steps of Hogwarts and watched as Lucius was taken away in chains, cold inside as Narcissa Malfoy, who had never shed a single tear in front of her son her entire life, wept into his shoulder, and wept and wept and wept—that’s when he realized the magnitude of what he’d done.

Draco didn’t regret it, hadn’t ever. However, that didn’t lessen the sting of the words he’d tortured himself with during long nights spent thinking of all that had been lost in the war, tangible and not.

He couldn’t have spoken even had he known something to say, and so when Potter stepped towards the shopkeeper, thankfully not looking Draco’s way, his green eyes mirroring that same immutable determination that had awed Draco since they first met, he was grateful.

“He _said_ it wasn’t a request,” Potter growled. Draco was surprised at how measured his voice was, for, while the man was clearly livid, it was a far cry from the anger-prone Gryffindor he’d grown up knowing. “You will answer the questions, or we can bring you in right now to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Mrs. Craigs, and have you questioned there under Veritaserum. But, I should warn you, things will be a lot less pleasant for you if you decide to go with option number two. We may only be ‘a bunch of sanctimonious half-bloods’, but we’re still Aurors and can easily arrest you for hindering an investigation, not to mention saying all those not only vile, but also incredibly incriminating things you just said. So. An answer. _Now_.”

The glower Philomena fixed Potter with was so scathing any lesser man would have collapsed to the floor in a trembling heap of sobs. But Potter, bless his Gryffindor heart, had proven often enough he was not such a man. He stayed standing tall, chin lifted defiantly, eyes blazing.

And, eventually, finally, Philomena averted her gaze, scowling at the floor instead. “I’ve only sold a single bottle of Acturin this year—the day before yesterday, in fact. Many of my customers stopped coming after the war, seeing as no one wants to associate themselves with dark magic anymore.” The accusation in her tone was obvious, but Potter didn’t flinch, his emerald eyes unblinking and unyielding as she continued. “It was just a single vial of the poison, but that’s all it takes; a single drop of Acturin can oftentimes be fatal already. The buyer was a young man, but he kept his face hidden. However, he seemed in a hurry, as well.”

Jennings said from where he and his partner still stood near the door, “Do you remember anything that might help us identify him? Hair colour, perhaps? Was his voice noticeably deep or particularly gruff? Did he say anything odd?”

Philomena’s haughty gaze settled on the Auror, and she sniffed condescendingly. “As I said, he kept his face hidden under a hood, hair included. He didn’t speak much, only said he needed one vial of Acturin, and his voice was neither _noticeably deep_ , nor _particularly gruff_. Then he gave me a pouch of gold, and I procured a vial of Acturin for him. You see, in my trade, one doesn’t oftentimes make small talk with the customers.”

Potter’s jaw clenched visibly, and Draco could tell by his tight fists and the rigid set of his shoulders that suppressing his anger was a difficult feat. “And there was nothing else? Nothing at all?”

“Nothing. He came in, got what he needed, and left.” She cleared her throat and drawled, “Now, that’s really all I can tell you. I’d be glad to offer up my memories of the time frame in question if that’ll get you to leave. As I said, I have customers coming, and I will not have a group of Aurors scare them away.”

Potter’s face was tight with repressed anger, but Draco finally shook himself from his momentary daze, mentally chastising himself as he pulled his features back into tight infallibility. He stepped forwards, snatching an empty vial from one of the cluttered shelves framing the room and extending it to the shopkeeper, and replied smoothly, “That’d be much appreciated. In here, if you will.”

Philomena shot him one last disgusted glare, but then compliantly raised her wand to her right temple and pulled a silver thread of memories from her mind, thin lips pursed throughout it all. Draco held the empty vial higher, and with one last scowl, Philomena dropped the string of silver into it.

“There,” Draco said, corking the vial and letting it disappear into his pocket. He offered the old shopkeeper one last fake simper. “As always, Philomena, this was simply delightful. I do hope we never meet again.” And without awaiting her no doubt scathing reply, Draco turned gracefully on his heel, and strode across the room, awarding the woman not another glance.

As he passed Potter, who, judging by the murderous glint in his eye, had not yet managed to swallow down his rage, Draco took pity on the Gryffindor, and he said quietly, “Let it be, Potter. We have all we need. Let’s…let’s go home, yeah?”

And it was those last few words that made Potter’s eyes finally clear, and when he locked eyes with Draco, they were back to their usual striking emerald, so green it was nearly inhuman. Draco’s pulse quickened, his chest constricting dangerously. But then a soft smile overtook Potter’s face, smoothing out the harsh lines of his previous anger.

He nodded. “Alright.”

And when Draco walked out of Renaults and Co., leaving its dust-caked shadows behind, Potter was beside him.


	6. insecurities make for the best company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, two chapters today!

Harry threw yet another sidelong glance at Malfoy.

The blond was disturbingly quiet, had been ever since they’d exited Renaults and Co., and he hadn’t passed a single snide comment or arrogant remark. Typically, Harry would have thanked the heavens for this particular show of mercy. He _should_ be thanking the heavens for this particular show of mercy. A miracle, some might call it. And yet, instead, here he was, actually and legitimately worrying.

Him, Harry Potter, worrying about Draco sodding Malfoy.

Wow. Just wow.

But he couldn’t claim something hadn’t changed in Renaults and Co., something so profound it had sent the typically so expressive Slytherin into a lapse of never-ending silence. Even now, ten minutes after they’d left the shop, Malfoy still hadn’t uttered a single word. He’d simply handed the vial of Philomena Craigs’ memories to Jennings and walked away, leaving Harry to quickly say goodbye to the two other Aurors before zipping after him. Malfoy hadn’t even _looked_ at Harry since.

Harry opened his mouth, still entirely unsure what to say, but certain enough that _something_ had to be said. This quiet simply wasn’t normal, and frankly, it alarmed him.

“So, err, do you want to talk about it?”

The instant the words left Harry’s mouth, he felt the overwhelming urge to facepalm. Do you want to talk about it? _Clearly_ not. He sounded like a bloody wanna-be therapist, for Merlin’s sake!

However, stupid as the words might have been, they made Malfoy finally look up from where he’d been staring stubbornly at the cobbled path of Diagon Alley. Since the Slytherin had made no show of wanting to Apparate back to Harry’s flat any time soon, Harry had simply contented himself with keeping pace at his side as they walked down Diagon’s long, winding street. There were few people out that afternoon, not with the sun blazing down so intensely, which suited Harry just fine.

Malfoy’s grey eyes found Harry’s, and for a long moment they simply stayed there, searching, assessing. Harry let them, not willing to break whatever delicate truce they’d created. Then, Malfoy averted his gaze again.

“Not particularly.”

Harry nodded once, ducking his head as well. Well then. So much for that.

But then, Malfoy spoke again, his tone unfamiliarly strained, “It shouldn’t bother me anymore, I know that. All she said, about me being a disgrace to the Malfoy name, and how my father should disinherit me for betraying him and leaving him to rot in a cell in Azkaban—it’s rubbish, I know. Lucius got what he deserves, after all he did in the war, after all the lives he helped ruin. Mine and my mother’s, included, I like to think. But…” He made a frustrated little sound, so un-Malfoy-like in every aspect imaginable that Harry looked up and blinked at him, startled. “It’s such fucking bollocks, and yet, there was a time, directly after the war, when I thought the same. Sometimes, when I’m at my worst, it still happens. And it just makes me so confused and angry, because I _know_ none of it is true, yet my own bloody brain keeps trying to convince me otherwise.”

Malfoy fell silent again, grey eyes trained resolutely downwards. With his platinum hair falling softly into his eyes, like strands of silvery silk, curled ever so slightly at the ends, he looked so utterly human and yet so utterly not, all Harry could do was stare.

Harry quickly blinked again, shaking himself out of his momentary daze, wondering what the bloody hell had come over him. He cleared his throat, averting his own gaze, and said, “She was wrong. What Craigs said back there, about you being a disgrace—she was wrong, simple as that. You turned on Voldemort and your father, yes. But it was the right thing to do. Their ideals were corrupt and immoral, and even though you were brought up to take them as gospel, you managed to question and ultimately forsake them. If you ask me, that’s not weakness or betrayal; that’s strength.”

There was a moment of silence, and although Harry itched to look up, he did not, too afraid he might fall back into whatever bizarre spell had taken hold of him moments before.

When Malfoy’s voice sounded again, it was no more than a strangled whisper. “You think so? Genuinely?”

Harry glanced up, just once, just for a second. Or that was what he’d planned to do. Instead, he found himself staring at the sickly pallor of Malfoy’s skin, more grey than its usual ivory, and the way his blond eyebrows bunched together, and how his grey eyes glimmered with uncertainty, a sight Harry had never, not once in the near-decade he’d known Draco Malfoy, ever seen happen. And he suddenly found it very hard indeed to look away again.

“Yes,” Harry found himself saying, and he meant it. “Yes, I do think that. And you should, too. You changed sides, Malfoy—stop acting as though you deserve to be in Azkaban with those who didn’t.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched slightly, as though the Slytherin might just smile. “You sure Auror’s the right job for you, Potter? You’re starting to sound an awful lot like a Mind Healer.”

Harry snorted, but the relief that crashed over him was far from subtle. “I wish. Then I could’ve saved a shit-ton of money after the war.” At Malfoy’s questioning look, Harry sighed and explained, “Hermione decided I needed to see someone to talk to about my, err, problems. She said it wasn’t healthy to keep it all boxed in. I did, for a few months.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t get me wrong, I know therapists—err, Mind Healers—can really help people. It just didn’t work for me. Relieved me of a lot of gold, though.” Harry gave a strained laugh, suddenly uncomfortable under Malfoy’s unblinking stare.

After a few moments, Malfoy gave a terse nod, and the silence resumed as they walked, the beat of their dragon-hide boots and trainers respectively on the cobblestone below the only sound. Until, that is, Malfoy said, “My mother wanted me to see a…a Mind Healer, too. She could’ve used it herself just as badly, if not more so. But I…refused. Didn’t think it would help. After all, what good is talking about my past mistakes when nothing I say could ever possibly change them?”

Harry stopped walking, and when Malfoy realized this, he, too, came to a standstill, looking nervous as he glanced from the ground to Harry and back.

“It’s not about changing your past mistakes, Malfoy,” Harry said, uncertain why he felt so strongly compelled to do so. “It’s about getting rid of all that guilt you so clearly still harbour.”

This time, the ensuing silence was heavy and dense, and although they stood outside, surrounded by open air, it felt stifling.

Harry once again felt a flurry of uncertainty pass over him, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and said earnestly, “Look, I’m sorry. Both for meddling just then, and for forcing you to go with me to Renaults and Co. in the first place. I should’ve accepted a no. I wanted a bit of action and got carried away. I didn’t realize what it might mean to you, and for that, I’m sorry. Truly.”

Malfoy gave him an unreadable stare. “Potter—”

“No. I mean it. I was in the wrong this time.” Harry cracked a weak smile, but it instantly lightened the mood considerably. “Besides, I need to restore you to your normal arsehole-ness. The Malfoy I know would have already thrown a party and alerted the media at the prospects of me admitting I was actually _wrong_.”

Malfoy still had that indecipherable look in his eyes, but he shook his head and barked a small laugh nevertheless. “Fine. But if you ever say a word to _anyone_ that I said all those sappy things, Potter, I swear I’ll—”

Harry snorted. “I promise I won’t tell a soul that you have an actual heart, Malfoy. But don’t think I’ll forget anytime soon.” Malfoy huffed crossly, and Harry laughed, a large, genuine smile twisting its way across his face. “Also, I think if we’re going to be flatmates and have deep conversations like this one, then you really ought to start calling me Harry.”

And just like that, whatever comfortable atmosphere that might’ve existed an instant ago vanished into thin air, and Malfoy’s head snapped up so quickly he risked whiplash, grey eyes wide.

Fuck, Harry thought, cursing himself and his stupidity. Things had been going so well, and naturally he’d gone and ruined it. _Call me Harry_ —god, what was wrong with him? This was Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake, he wouldn’t be caught dead calling Harry _Harry_.

“I…,” Malfoy said, and swallowed hard. But then, the impossible happened, and the Slytherin nodded. “Alright—err, Harry.” He hesitated, but then added quickly, as though he might change his mind if he waited long enough, “But then you have to call me Draco, as well.”

Harry smiled, and Malfoy must have been as uncertain as Harry was, for the sight visibly calmed the blond, making his shoulders sag slightly. No—not Malfoy, Harry reminded himself, and an inexplicable surge of warmth went through his chest. _Draco_.

“Agreed,” Harry said. “Now, Draco—fancy a drink?”

* * *

Draco still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around all that had happened. But there was exactly one thing he knew for certain: Harry Potter was calling Draco by his first name, and, moreover, _actually smiling at him_. Not smiling in his vague direction, nor because there were Gryffindors nearby that might elicit one of those rare moments of vulnerability from the Boy Who Lived. No—these, they were smiles meant for Draco and Draco alone, smiles he had earned, smiles he deserved.

Actually, no, scratch that—Draco knew exactly _two_ things for certain. And number two was that he honestly couldn’t remember a time since the age of thirteen where he, Draco Malfoy, had felt so god-damn happy.

Potter—no, _Harry_ —had taken Draco to the same pub he’d apparently celebrated his birthday in what felt like eons ago, and as Draco had passed the spot where he’d found Harry, pale and trembling and coughing up blood, he had been glad Harry didn’t seem affected. Draco wasn’t sure what he’d have done had Harry had some bad reaction or surge of traumatizing memories, or, god forbid, the sudden need to be comforted and calmed. Draco was doing his best to leave all the merciless teachings his Father had incessantly drilled into his mind since childhood behind, to, as Pansy had so delicately phrased it, ‘become less of an ice-hearted bastard’—but being someone’s comfort and calm was still decidedly too much sentiment for him, thank you very much.

Instead, however, the Gryffindor had simply kept marching towards the pub, still with that giddy smile plastered across his face. It was said smile that kept Draco from saying anything, that had him marching behind Harry into the pub and taking a seat and feeling for once not completely out of place.

But when the waitress came over to where they sat well away from the pub’s other occupants, ready to take their order, and Harry said, “One Butterbeer for me, please” Draco’s eyebrows snapped together.

“Butterbeer?” he asked. “We’re at a pub, and you’re ordering _Butterbeer_?”

Harry simply shrugged. “It’s not even five yet, and I happen to like Butterbeer a lot, for your information. It reminds me of Hogwarts.” He paused, then added, flushing slightly, “Besides, I don’t really drink. Makes me feel…not right. I don’t like having my guard down like that.”

Draco blinked in confusion. It wasn’t that he’d ever thought of Harry as some wild, out-of-control drunk. But…he was a _Gryffindor_. Unchecked recklessness and zero impulse-control were practically in the job description. Yet, now that he’d heard Harry’s reasoning, it made complete and utter sense, and Draco found himself marvelling not for the first nor the last time over how complex Harry Potter’s nature was. He’d realized a long, long time ago the Boy Who Lived was far more than simply a pretty face and shallow representation of his title, yet Draco found himself discovering time and time again how _much_ more that actually was.

He nodded and turned to the waitress as well. “I’ll have a Butterbeer, too, please. Extra cream, and with that delicious caramel drizzle on top if you have it.”

The waitress nodded curtly and left to go attend to the next table of customers. Silence fell at their table, and it was only then that Draco realized Harry was staring at him oddly. Or rather, gaping.

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “Yes, P-Harry?”

Harry quickly blinked and looked away, his olive skin doing little to hide his blush. “Nothing. You didn’t have to order that, you know. I just personally don’t like not having complete control over myself. But if you wanted something stronger, you really should have gotten it—”

Draco held up a hand, effectively silencing the rambling Gryffindor. “It’s fine. No need to explain yourself. Constant vigilance and all that, I understand. Besides—” Draco gave Harry his best Slytherin smirk. “—I happen to like Butterbeer a lot, for your information.”

Harry burst into laughter, and the sound was as beautiful as it was infective, and soon Draco found himself chuckling as well, unable to look away from the bright twinkle in the Gryffindor’s eyes.

When their Butterbeer came a short period of time later, Draco was delighted to find there was, in fact, both a heaping of extra cream, plus a generous amount of caramel-golden drizzle atop of his, and he didn’t hesitate before taking one long, deep sip of the heavenly nectar. It was only when he noticed Harry staring at him instead of drinking from his own mug of Butterbeer that Draco froze, realizing too late that he might have very well made a fool of himself.

But then Harry’s face split into a humongous grin, and he laughed, “I know one shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but you practically inhaling a mug of Butterbeer not only with extra cream, but _caramel drizzle_ on top, is simply too much.”

“Don’t be disheartened—Gryffindors just generally tend to have smaller brains then the rest of the world. It’s not your fault. Although, I have to admit, your brain is at least bigger than Weasley’s. Honestly, how Granger put up with the two of you for so long is frankly a wonder to me.” Draco sniffed primly, before taking another large gulp of Butterbeer. The sweet deliciousness of it made his mouth quirk dangerously, but he repressed a smile. After all, he was scolding Potter—a smile had no place in that image. “Also, caramel is the most delicious thing invented since chocolate, and I will not have you tell me otherwise, Saviour of the wizarding world or no.”

Harry was already chuckling again, and he shook his head, lifting his own mug of Butterbeer in salute. “Cheers to that, mate.”

And although, judging by the way Harry drank merrily from his Butterbeer, afterwards wiping his mouth with his sleeve and launching into some conversation Draco was only barely aware of, the Gryffindor likely hadn’t put much thought into that last word— _mate_ —Draco couldn’t stop thinking about it. Because, while he’d fantasized so often about being friends one day with Harry Potter, about being able to do things like this, go out to a pub and just talk and laugh and not get into a row every time either of them opened their mouths, it had always been just that—a fantasy. But now it appeared as though Draco might finally be getting his wish after all.

The notion was both exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

They’d been in the pub now for a few hours at least—both currently nursing their third, maybe fourth, Butterbeer—and Harry had just started gushing to Draco about how bloody brilliant his new broom was (a Fireball Three Sixty, a brand-new model by the same company that first created the Firebolt, a broom Draco had had his own eye on for quite some time now) when the inevitable happened and their fleeting moment of cheery contentment came to a screeching stop.

And the worst part of it was that, this time, Draco couldn’t even blame Potter.

“Harry?”

At the sound of his name, Harry looked up, as did Draco—only to find a brown-haired man standing before their table, blue eyes fixed on Harry, a small, shy smile stretched across his face. Draco didn’t recognize him at first, thinking this must surely be another of the Saviour’s fans.

But then Harry exclaimed, focusing his wide smile on the stranger, “Nic! Wow, what a coincidence seeing you here today. Also, I meant to tell you, I’m so sorry about what happened the other night. I promise you, when we go out, we don’t always end up in a hospital bed at St. Mungo’s.”

They both chuckled at that, and that’s when Draco remembered the stranger; he’d been part of the pack of Gryffindors that had nearly kicked down the door to Harry’s hospital room on the night of the poisoning. So, clearly, he wasn’t a stranger to Harry. Draco’s eyes turned assessing as he took in this Nic-person. He was tall and reasonably handsome, Draco supposed, with his blue eyes and curly hair and tanned skin and kind smile, far too wide as he regarded Harry.

Draco instantly disliked the man.

Nic chuckled and batted a dismissive hand. “Oh, I don’t mind. A bit of excitement now and then keeps us all young. Honestly, I’m just glad everything ended well. For a moment there, we were all really worried.” He cleared his throat and his grin widened, something Draco hadn’t thought possible. “So, what are you doing here?”

Draco found it amusing how the stranger—yes, stranger, after all, Draco didn’t know the man, nor did he find himself particularly keen on trusting him—hadn’t even glanced Draco’s way once since coming over to their table, interrupting a perfectly good conversation.

But Harry didn’t notice. “We actually came here from Knockturn Alley. Got a lead on the Acturin used to poison me the other day.” Any other time, Draco would have said something about the frankly concerning amount of cheerfulness with which Harry talked about his own attempted murder. “And you? Enjoying your vacation?”

Nic laughed. “Yes, actually. Don’t get me wrong, I love working at Hogwarts. But I am _so_ relieved the schoolyear’s over.”

“Hogwarts?” Draco asked, eyebrows lifted. “You work at Hogwarts?”

At this, Nic finally deigned a glance in Draco’s general direction, and Draco didn’t miss the light frown that coasted over his lips as he did. He couldn’t be sure whether the stranger’s disapproval stemmed from Draco being an Ex-Death Eater, or simply because he was currently Harry Potter’s preferred company.

Whichever it was, Nic’s lips thinned in obvious displeasure. “Yes, actually. I’m apprenticing in Ancient Runes there.” Draco was sure he was only being civil due to Harry’s presence. Well, the feeling was mutual.

Draco’s own eyes narrowed at Nic, but—as always—Potter didn’t pick up on the palpable tension, instead saying brightly, “Isn’t that brilliant? I thought about perhaps becoming a Professor, too, after the war. Teaching DADA would’ve been interesting, I think. I know you went to school in America, but what house do you think you’d have been Sorted into in Hogwarts, Nic?”

When addressed again by Harry, the man’s humongous grin returned again, which he promptly fixed on Harry and said, “Oh, that’s a hard one. I think I like Hufflepuff a lot. They seem like a nice bunch. Plus, their common rooms are down near the kitchen, which means you can always get a midnight snack should the desire arise. Other than that, though, I think Gryffindor would be cool, too. Don’t think I’m smart enough for Ravenclaw, though.”

Funny how he hadn’t even mentioned Hogwarts’ fourth house. A Slytherin hater—how novel and entirely unexpected.

Draco simply couldn’t help himself. Something, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on but was definitely there, made his blood boil just looking at the man, all false cheer and smiles. Draco leaned forwards in his seat, angling his head to the side, and said, tone innocent, “And Slytherin? What’s your opinion on Slytherin, _Nic_?”

Nic’s eyes swivelled to Draco and narrowed, and it would have been impossible for anyone, even Potter, to not feel the sudden change in the air, the coldness in the American’s gaze as they took in Draco. But Draco refused to avert his eyes, to back off and admit defeat. If he hadn’t cowered for Philomena Craigs, he certainly would not now.

The ghost of a sneer coasted over Nic’s face. “Even though the war may not have made Slytherin house very popular, the children at Hogwarts are just that—children. I bear no ill will towards them, and how could I? Me, no, I don’t think I’d fit in there very well, to be quite honest. But that doesn’t mean I think badly of the house.” His eyes bored into Draco’s. “Personally, I try not to let prejudices get the better of me.”

Draco’s fingers clenched around his half-empty mug. “How very insightful of you. But there’s obviously something else on your mind. Are you waiting for me to congratulate you, or is there something else you’d like to say?”

Nic snorted, nostrils flaring, but there was about as much humour in the sound as currently was in Draco. “No use, is it? I may have lived in the States, but don’t think I haven’t heard of your family, _Malfoy_.”

“And here I thought you were just glaring at me so hatefully because you didn’t like my shirt.”

A scowl overtook Nic’s face, and gone was the subtlety he’d so meticulously exercised moments before, now apparently so far gone in his loathing for Draco that he didn’t care anymore that Harry still sat at the table, his anger so deep-rooted that even worming himself into the Chosen One’s good graces took second place.

“I don’t know how you sidestepped rotting in Azkaban for the rest of your life,” the man spat, “but that doesn’t make you innocent, not by a long shot. You’re just as much a pureblood fanatic as the rest of them, and equally to blame.”

Draco scoffed. “Taking personal offense now, are we?” His eyes narrowed at Nic, and he took in his jeans and trainers and coat, all very muggle indeed. “You’re muggleborn, clearly, or at least half-muggle. So, who was it? Who did you lose during the war, and which Death Eater did it? I doubt it was my father—he never liked getting his hands too dirty—but perhaps dear Auntie Bella? Or was it someone else entirely, and you, just as so many others, are simply looking for a scapegoat to blame for all the misery the war brought you?”

The resulting silence was so laden with tension even Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat across the table, emerald eyes shifting nervously between the other two men. However, Draco only noted this out of the corner of his eye, for his gaze was still interlocked with that of Nic, waiting for the latter to break eye contact. After all, Draco was certainly not going to do it. Backing down now was simply out of question.

The man glowered at Draco with such intense ferocity, Draco found his hand twitching towards his wand. The hairs on his arms stood on end. All other noises in the pub, the chatter, the laughter, the clinking of glasses and cutlery—all that which had previously clouded Draco’s senses faded into the background, and he could only think, if this Nic lunged for him now, how quickly he might reach his wand.

But before that could happen, Harry cleared his throat. The tension didn’t disappear, not at all, but it was as though even it paused for Harry Potter. Draco found himself instinctively glancing towards the messy-haired Gryffindor, breaking eye contact with the other man, feeling instantly reminded of all the mealtimes he’d find himself unintentionally looking over to the Gryffindor table back in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. But just as quickly, he realized his mistake, and Draco scowled, whirling back to face the stranger. Yet, thankfully, or perhaps not, the man’s gaze was on Harry as well.

“Look, Nic, it was so great meeting you again,” Harry said, forcing a small smile for the other man’s sake. “But I’m afraid Draco and I really ought to go now. This is our, what, fourth round of Butterbeer?” The Gryffindor gave an evidently strained laugh, but even then, the sound had such a calming effect Draco could practically feel his own anger simmer down inside of him. “Any more Butterbeer and I’ll go into a sugar coma. But, hey, if you come here often, maybe we could meet up some time, before you have to go back to Hogwarts, eh?”

Nic’s previous smile returned, if evidently forced as well, and he offered Harry a curt nod. “I’d love that. I’ll have Parvati give me your Floo, and we can work something out that way.”

Harry smiled. “Give her my best.”

The man inclined his head, and then, without another word or glance in Draco’s direction, turned on his heel and walked away.

Draco’s attention shifted back to Harry. Whatever warmth and happiness that might have existed before Nic’s arrival had disappeared without a trace, leaving in its wake nothing but dark, tired smudges under those usually so brilliant green eyes and lines of exhaustion a newly-minted twenty-year-old had no business exhibiting.

Harry stood, fishing a handful of coins from his jean pocket and dropping them on the table. “It’s getting dark,” he said without looking at Draco. “We should go.”

An inexplicable ache tightened around Draco’s heart, but he swallowed down the hurt that enveloped him whole when Harry, who’d been laughing and smiling and calling him _Draco_ just minutes before, wouldn’t even look at him anymore. Instead, he stood as well, quickly dusting off his suit and offering a terse nod. “Of course. After you.”

Harry ducked his head and started across the pub, and although Draco wanted to say something as the Gryffindor passed, reach out for his arm and apologize for getting carried away—he didn’t. He let Harry go, and followed him dutifully, chin high, shoulders tense, silent as they walked through the pub, out the door and into the cooler air outside.

The sun had indeed set, and it had to be nine at least, maybe ten. It was hard to be sure, though; they’d talked for hours, and Draco had lost any semblance of time sitting there in a pub with Harry Potter, chatting about the most mundane, everyday things, like who their favourite Quidditch player was this season, or what type of ice cream they detested most in the world (Harry had confessed to hating mint chocolate chip, which Draco in turn had taken as a personal affront; clearly cotton candy took the cake for foulest ice cream creation to date, mint chocolate chip had _chocolate_ in it).

However, all that cheer was long gone, the light-hearted conversations and genuine smiles now but a memory from the past, and although Draco couldn’t stop glancing over at Harry as they walked, the Gryffindor refused to make eye contact, even if Draco was certain Harry knew he was watching. At least he hadn’t Apparated back to the flat yet—if Harry locked himself in his room and ignored Draco for the rest of the night, Draco really couldn’t be held accountable for whatever irrational actions he may pursue.

When they’d been walking aimlessly for what felt to Draco like hours but could be no more than five minutes, he decided enough was enough. They’d been _laughing_ together, by Salazar’s beard, as though they were friends. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy—friends. The concept was so wrong, so absurd, so utterly ridiculous, so incredible and unbelievable and heart-warming and profound, so right in so many ways. Draco had, if only for a moment, had what he’d always wanted, since that first day of First Year, when he’d held out his hand with the very same wish in mind, and been sent crashing back down to earth, to reality, where a Malfoy and a Potter couldn’t possibly be anything but enemies.

Yet, there he’d had it. It’d actually seemed possible, if only briefly.

And, as always, he’d fucked it up.

But Draco had given up too easily last time. He’d taken it as a personal affront and sulked and pouted and decided that, if he couldn’t have Potter’s friendship, he’d secure the boy’s attention some other way.

This time, there could be none of that. This time, he had to put aside his pride, and do it right.

He stopped walking. “Harry.” Ahead, the Gryffindor slowed as well, tensing at the use of his first name, but not turning to face Draco. He tried again, “Harry. Look, I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean to—”

Harry scoffed. “Shouldn’t have what? Let slip how much of that pureblood fanaticism is still ingrained in your brain? Insulting muggleborns, acting all superior, _dear_ _Auntie Bella_ —seriously, Malfoy?”

Draco tried to swallow the lump slowly but surely forming at the back of his throat, but to no avail. _Malfoy_. He was back to Malfoy. “Harry, please, I didn’t—”

But Harry shook his head furiously, plunging a hand through his messy dark hair. “God, I should have _known_ you hadn’t changed. I should have realized it’s not possible, not when all that blood purity-shite was beaten into your very _essence_ since birth. You can’t simply renounce it.”

“ _Harry_ —”

“No!” Harry finally whirled to face Draco, and those startingly green eyes were not a shade dimmer in the dark than they’d been in the well-lit pub—thus making the anger and loathing and pain therein so much more harder to ignore. “ _No_. You don’t get to act like you care, Malfoy, not again. I actually started trusting you for a minute there, you realize that? _Me_ , who you tormented in school just for fun, when I had enough shit on my plate as it was—not that you cared. I doubt you do now, either.”

The words shouldn’t hurt as much as they did, especially when Draco knew full-well they were true. “I _do_ care. I know what I did back then was wrong and inexcusable but—”

Harry barked a mirthless laugh. “You’re damn right it was inexcusable! You called Hermione a mudblood every chance you got. _You took the Dark Mark_. And all for what? To please your daddy?”

Draco blinked. There was silence for a moment, and Draco expected anger to come surging and bubbling within him, for him to explode with more words he didn’t actually mean and would later doubtlessly regret. But none came, nothing at all. There was only shock, and a tightness in his chest that made it hard to breathe.

He swallowed, and, despite the anger still glinting in Harry’s eyes, took a step forwards, right hand outstretched for the other’s arm. “Harry, _please_ , I—”

But before he could finish the sentence, a shout sounded, and the alley flashed green.


	7. faces and foes from the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this chapter is a little shorter than usual (sorry!!) but I promise the next chapter will in turn be a lot longer. Also, this one's entirely in Draco's POV, so enjoy!

When hit with Sectumsempra in Sixth Year, Draco had reacted too slowly. Sometimes, when the nights were particularly bad and sleep proved especially impossible, he’d lay awake thinking about that day in the bathroom. The white flash speeding towards him; the indescribable agony ripping through his very core, worse than any pain he’d ever experienced before or since the incident, Voldemort’s occasional Crucio sessions included; and the sight of Harry Potter before Draco’s vision went black, standing there, wide-eyed and white as Draco’s shirt had been before it soaked crimson, his wand still raised in dazed horror.

Draco had not reacted fast enough, and it didn’t matter that he hadn’t anticipated the attack, for that particular fact hadn’t mattered in the slightest, not when he’d lain there sprawled across the bathroom floor in a pool of his own blood, able to form only a single coherent thought: He was going to die.

Since that day, Draco had promised himself that would never happen again. He would not react too slowly when faced with another life-or-death situation, not ever, regardless of whether it was his safety or his mother’s or that of a friend that was on the line.

And so, when he saw the flash of green, Draco didn’t think. He lunged towards Harry, tackling the Gryffindor and knocking him to the ground with all the force he could muster. Draco only had a millisecond to act, and as he looked up to see the green curse speed nearer as though in slow motion, he could only hope he’d done enough.

He braced himself for impact, for the Killing Curse and the swift—he hoped it would at least be swift—death it brought with it. But instead, a loud bang sounded as green light crashed into the shop window behind them, resulting in an explosion of glass and noise, the former of which rained down on Draco and Harry like rain in a thunderstorm. Or rather, mostly on Draco. He’d landed on top of Harry, having meant to at least shield the Gryffindor from the curse if all else failed.

But he gave himself no time to lament his injuries. Instead, he sprung up, wand already gripped tight and lifted, and bellowed “ _Protego_!” just as another volley of spells came speeding their way. None of them were green, thank Salazar, otherwise Draco’s shield would have done them no good whatsoever.

However, the impact jolted Draco to his very bones, and he had to bite down on his tongue until the metallic tang of blood exploded in his mouth just to keep his shield intact as spell after spell exploded across it in a colourful burst of fireworks.

The alleyway was too dark to make out anything more than the hazy outline of the figure. As the volley of curses shot from the figure’s wand, they briefly illuminated the outline of the attacker’s face. A man, Draco noted, but then there were more curses flying his way, and he threw up another Protego. The curses blasted against the shield once more, but this time, Draco didn’t wait for the next round. He could already feel his Protego weakening, and he couldn’t be certain his next shield would hold at all, or whether it would simply flash and flicker out. He couldn’t risk that.

He started into a sprint down the alley, towards where the figure stood half-concealed in the shadows, and Draco raised his wand towards the man and threw a curse in his direction. He didn’t wait to see whether his curses hit their mark or not before firing another, and another, forcing the man back, back, back.

He didn’t let himself think of Harry, praying only that the Gryffindor would for once in his bloody life stay put and let Draco handle it. Because, while it was true Draco had garnered his fair share of enemies over the years, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Avada Kedavra had been meant for a certain lighting-scarred Boy Who Lived. If Draco had been caught in the crossfire, the hooded figure likely wouldn’t have minded much at all, but Harry was his primary target.

Which meant Draco’s goal first and foremost needed to be putting as much distance as at all possible between the attacker and the Boy Who Lived, and who, if Draco had any say in the matter, would _continue to bloody live_.

“Avada Kedavra!” the man bellowed, and Draco only barely ducked the flash of green, dropping onto the cobbled stone just in time as the curse shattered another shop window behind him. Scowling, he scrambled to his feet as fast as he could and pointed his wand at the man.

“Stupefy!”

The man dodged the spell with ease, but Draco had counted on that. A flash of orange light exploded from his wand as his non-verbal ‘Everte Statum’ sped towards the figure, hitting the man square in the chest before he could react, or so much as move. Their assailant was immediately thrown backwards, powerless as he found himself flung through the air like a ragdoll and landed in a shop window with yet another explosion of glass. Draco sent up another shield as the jagged crystalline shards came flying, effectively saving himself from any further cuts—but the attacker was not so lucky.

Even through the dark and with the black cloak, Draco could make out the crimson red staining the man’s robes as he lay motionless in the broken shop window. Draco knew he himself was likely not much better off, but he ignored the pain, shoving it to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the man in the shop window. He would bet his favourite pair of dragonhide boots this was the same man who’d used the Acturin to nearly kill Harry on his birthday.

Wand raised, Draco advanced, steps small and measured, eyes never leaving the ever-still glass-covered heap of fabric and limbs and blood, not even for a second. Now that there was no longer a duel in progress, he could clearly hear the alarms shrieking in the shops all around him. Good. Aurors should be arriving any minute now.

But above the sirens, Draco could hear his own heartbeat as it drummed against his ribcage, his blood rushing in his ears, droning out all else. He took one last step forwards, and then he stood just a foot away from the cloak-bundled man, so close he could reach out and yank back his hood if he so desired, finally see who it was that so adamantly wished to kill Draco’s soulmate.

And yet, he hesitated.

Draco couldn’t say why he hesitated, why something in him told him no, wait, _look_ , and why he headed that voice over the roaring of his own reason, of his mind goading him to push back the man’s hood and get the answers he so desperately desired. Yet, he did. He paused, one hand still tightly clasped around his wand, the other hovering over the man.

And in his hesitation, he could only stand there, startled, as the seemingly unconscious man leapt up and lunged at Draco. And as he collided with the cobbled stone below, the air knocked out of his lungs, his head roaring in protest as pain exploded at the back of his skull, all Draco could think was that he had, once again, reacted too slowly.

The tip of a wand dug into Draco’s throat, and he scrambled for his own. But his attacker simply laughed and kicked Draco’s wand across the street, a cold, merciless laugh that sent shivers running down Draco’s spine. He froze, going completely still. Because—fuck, he _knew_ that laugh. That laugh, bloody hell, he remembered hearing that laugh at Malfoy Manor. Remembered sitting at the long, ebony dining table, horrified and sick to his stomach, as Voldemort perched at the head of the table with Nagini like some self-proclaimed king, petting the snake as though it were a cat, praising the face Draco knew that cold laugh belonged to, a face that had taken almost as much pleasure in torturing and murdering muggleborns as Bellatrix had. Bellatrix might have been much more obvious about it, but Draco still distinctly remembered how the man’s dark eyes had glowed every time he recounted his stories for all the Death Eaters to hear.

When Death Eaters had first started trickling into Malfoy Manor in the summer of 1997, Narcissa had pulled Draco aside one day and, amongst other things, warned him there would be dangerous people coming into their lives, people Draco needed to avoid, for his own good. Dangerous, because they were willing and capable of doing whatever it took to enforce their beliefs upon the world. Even now, Draco could still remember the sickly pallor of his mother’s skin, the first flash of fear he’d ever glimpsed in her usually so proud and dauntless eyes—could still hear her words echoing in the empty hallway; beware of fanatics, Draco, for they will not be swayed from their path. But, above all, beware of the fanatic that hides their fanaticism under a mask of sanity, for you’ll never see them coming until it’s too late.

At the time Draco had been much too scared of his aunt Bellatrix and bloody _Voldemort_ _himself_ to take her vague-worded warning to heart. Now, however, he knew better.

And so, when Draco looked up to see none other than Corban Yaxley staring down at him, those familiar dark eyes blazing, all he could do was gape up at him in horror and shock.

Yaxley scowled, putting more pressure into his wand currently digging into Draco’s skin. “Well who do we have here. Draco Malfoy. Always knew you were too much of a weakling to serve the Dark Lord, but I hadn’t expected you to stoop so low. Harry Potter’s Auror bodyguard? Filthy blood-traitor.” Unbridled hatred and disgust radiated off Yaxley as he first spat the words, eyes blazing, and then proceeded to spit on the street next to Draco.

The latter could do nothing but stare up at the familiar hard features he’d never thought he’d have to face again, features that wrenched his thoughts deep, deep, deep under into memories Draco had long since buried and written off as past and forgotten. His mind reeled in a desperate attempt to stop panicking and _think_ , _goddammit_. Yaxley was here, in Diagon, instead of Azkaban, where he should be rotting right alongside Lucius Malfoy and all the other Death Eaters—

Oh.

Oh _fuck_.

Draco had known from the moment he’d first set eyes on the morning edition of the Daily Prophet showcasing the big, capital-lettered title ‘MASS DEATH-EATER BREAKOUT IN AZKABAN’ four months before, that he should have actually _read the article_ instead of simply wasting a minute or five gaping at the title, having a mild panic attack, and then Apparating directly to the ministry to more or less hysterically determine whether his father was or was not currently running free with a pack of deranged killers all harbouring a personal vendetta against not only the government Draco worked for, but _Draco himself_.

Suffice to say, it hadn’t quite worked out that way.

And now he was paying the price. A Death-Eater. _Of course_ the person after Harry was a Death-Eater! Draco mentally cursed himself. Who else would be so determined to kill Harry Potter, Vanquisher of Voldemort? He should have realized it sooner, and if not him, then someone else at the ministry. After all, that breakout had been all anyone at the department could talk about since it had occurred four months before.

But it didn’t matter how much Draco chided himself for missing such an obvious explanation, for none of it would change the fact that Corban Yaxley was currently pinning him to the ground, murder in his eyes, and all Draco could possibly do where he lay wandless and powerless and entirely useless, was curse his own stupidity and hope his looming demise would be signed with a quick Avada Kedavra to the heart. Salazar knew Death Eaters like Yaxley were certainly capable of far less merciful deaths. Draco had witnessed that himself.

“You thought you could betray the Dark Lord and walk away scot-free, didn’t you?” Yaxley hissed. “Join up with Harry Potter and his mudblood friends and enjoy life as a free man, as though you’d never taken the Mark at all? Lucius is right to despise you. Hell, if I had a disgraceful traitor like you as a son, I would rid the world of you myself.” Those dark eyes twinkled then, and although the flickering lights of the streetlamps lining the cobbled path illuminated Yaxley’s severe features, Draco thought the light made his eyes look even blacker.

“You know what?” asked the Death Eater, an unpleasant smirk contorting his face until it looked just about as human as the red-eyed, snake-like thing Draco would often awaken to in the middle of the night, sweat-drenched and shaking at the memory of Voldemort’s monstrous features. “On second thought, I think I might just do that now.”

And Yaxley raised his wand until the tip of it hovered directly between Draco’s eyes, whose heart was beating thunderous in his chest and gaze went slightly cross-eyed trying to keep his eyes on the tip of the wand that was to bring his death, and the Death Eater smirked and said what Draco realized—after all he’d been through, after all he’d survived, after all he’d so painstakingly worked through just to find his way back into society, into reality, into _life_ —would be the last words he’d ever hear:

“Avada Kedavr—”

A flash of light ripped through the dark alleyway. Except it wasn’t green, but scarlet. Nor did it origin from Yaxley’s wand, a wand that, at that moment, was wrenched right out of the Death Eater’s grasp and thrown by some invisible hand across the street to join Draco’s across the cobbled pavement.

And before Draco or Yaxley could react in any way, none other than one bloodied, dishevelled-looking, but no less steely-faced Harry Potter emerged from the shadows, wand trained on Yaxley, emerald eyes gleaming with that uncontainable, nonpareil fervour of his.

Harry did not flinch as he took in Yaxley, and his voice was even but brimming with hardly-repressed anger as he said, “Get up, now, hands behind your head, and don’t even think of putting up a fight, because I have my wand and you do not, and I assure you I have gotten a lot better at spell work since joining the Aurors.” The cold mercilessness of his words was so unexpected, so uncharacteristically Harry, especially as he continued, “Should you resist in any way, trust me when I say no one will shed any tears if I find myself forced to hit you with, say, an Entrail-Expelling curse.”

Silence.

The quiet was so odd, so very eerie, after the commotion of the fight, and Draco could only blink at Harry, who wasn’t looking at him, hadn’t looked at him once since he’d appeared under the wan golden glow of the streetlamps. No, those green eyes were trained solely on Yaxley, and Draco couldn’t remember a time he’d ever seen such raw hatred in Harry’s eyes, not even when faced with Voldemort three years before. The intensity of it sent a chill down his spine.

Yaxley’s scowl deepened. Draco could see the gears turning in the Death Eater’s head, could see in the way his eyes flickered from Harry across the alleyway that he was calculating possible means of escape. Draco suddenly felt the sudden, uncontrollable urge to burst out laughing. Laugh, because Harry bloody Potter had done it again, had saved the day and done everyone else’s job for them, had saved Draco’s life and was going to catch Yaxley and thus solve his own would-be assassination. By Morgana, the man was simply too much of a bloody hero.

But damn if it didn’t make Draco want to kiss him.

Another moment of tense silence ticked by, and Draco stayed completely motionless under Yaxley’s grip. Yet his eyes, his eyes he allowed stray towards Harry. And when he found one pair of emerald eyes staring back, filled with so many contrasting emotions, from hatred to anger to actual fear, so natural and raw it made Draco’s chest tighten, he actually forgot for a moment the deathly fear gripping his heart at the still dangerously high prospects of being murdered by his former colleague.

And so when Yaxley suddenly leapt up, wrenching Draco up with him so that Draco’s body formed a definite and corporeal shield against any curses Harry might send their way, a dagger pressed into Draco’s throat where moments ago the tip of Yaxley’s wand had been, a little gasp was the most profound reaction Draco could manage. When had he become so utterly _useless_? He was supposed to be an Auror, for fuck’s sake!

Draco had to repress a cry of pain as the blade procured from nowhere dug deeper into his esophegus, making it increasingly hard to breathe without cutting open his own throat. Yaxley only held the blade tighter.

“Frankly, Mr. Potter, if you went through with it, I’d be very surprised indeed. We both know you’re too _good_ for such ruthlessness. Not to mention—” Yaxley’s blade dug deeper into Draco’s skin, and this time he couldn’t suppress a slight yelp as the blade drew blood. “—any sudden movements on your part would result in the untimely demise of Mr. Malfoy over here. Not that I imagine anyone would miss him much.” A gruff laugh sounded near Draco’s ear, so cold and merciless and _wrong_ it sent an icy shiver down his spine. “But you, you’re too decent to let me kill him. You _care_ , always have, always will, even if said care is misplaced. Behold, the foolishness of the sentimental.”

And before Draco knew to brace himself, Yaxley shifted his grip on the blade and sliced it down Draco’s left arm.

Pain exploded as his skin was ripped open, and Draco cried out as blood poured through his left shirtsleeve, visible even through the dark fabric. His nerves felt as though on fire, and he had to clamp down on his tongue to keep from whimpering like some pathetic animal. But the agony was horrific, more so than he’d expected, and his eyes promptly started to burn.

It was only when Yaxley’s harsh, cold laugh sounded again, and the Death Eater said, “See, Mr. Potter, I know you,” that Draco looked up to see Harry, at least a full step nearer than he’d stood moments ago, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, the hand holding his wand having briefly dropped a full five inches.

But Yaxley simply tutted, while Draco (and Harry from across the alley) stared down at the blood soaking through his shirtsleeve. Merlin, it _hurt_. More so than Draco had ever expected, more so than should be possible—

“The blade’s laced with poison, of course,” said Yaxley then, his tone matter-of-fact but laced with definite glee. “I quite like poisons, as I’m sure you’ve realized by now. Death by curse is too quick, and personally torturing people was never quite my style. Don’t like getting my hands dirty, you see, much like your father, Draco. But poison…” Yaxley gave another crazed chuckle. “Poison will do all the hard work for you, and all you have to do is simply administer it and sit back and enjoy the show.”

And what a spectacular show it was turning out to be. Draco had to bite down on his tongue and clamp his jaw shut to keep from crying out as the invisible flames spread from where Yaxley had cut him up his arm and into his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe by the second. He mentally started going through all the poisons he knew had similar effects, only his brain couldn’t quite seem to work.

“You’ve lost, Yaxley,” a voice came from across the alleyway. Draco’s mind only later recognized it as Harry’s—and that’s when he knew for sure he was in trouble. “Aurors will be here any moment now, and they’ll catch you and throw you back into Azkaban the instant they see you. So, if you want any hope of escaping, you’ll let him go now, and leave while you still can.”

But Yaxley simply snorted and tightened his grip on Draco. “You know what, Mr. Potter, I think I’m going to have to decline. Appreciate your gracious offer as I may, I’d much rather stay and watch you panic. Can’t save everyone, I’m afraid.” He altered his grip on Draco, shifting his hand so it curled directly above the cut, eliciting a pained cry from Draco. “It’s Moonroot, in case you were wondering. Lovely little flower, one of my all-time favourites.”

Moonroot.

Instantly, fact after fact after fact went racing through Draco’s head, none of which did anything to calm his sprinting heart; Moonroot, a perennial flowering plant native to North America, known also as Banshee’s Glove or simply the Death Flower, with snow-white petals and vivid red berries, the former of which are used in many dark potions. Highly poisonous to animals and humans alike, and ultimately also quite fatal.

Well, fuck.

The horror must have been evident on his face, for Harry’s voice sounded increasingly less confident and increasingly more panicked as he said, “One last chance, Yaxley. Let. Him. Go.”

“Or what, Potter? You won’t do anything, not as long as I’ve got good old Draco here with me. If you try anything, you’ll hit him, and I’ll simply make my escape and leave you to clean up the mess.”

Draco’s hearing fizzled out during the end of that last sentence, so he couldn’t be exactly sure whether that had been what Yaxley had said. The pain was becoming unbearable and had now engulfed his entire upper body, making it not only progressively impossible to think, but to breathe as well. His head was buzzing and ringing all at once, and he had to blink multiple times just to keep his vision from going as black as the night sky above.

“Oh, will you look at that,” Yaxley’s cheerful, oddly distant voice swam through Draco’s head. “Seems the Moonroot is taking effect quicker than I’d expected it to. I’d wager our young scion has perhaps ten more minutes or so before his condition reaches critical, thirty before it’s entirely too late.”

Yes, Draco thought distantly, that sounds about right.

“It’s me you want, isn’t it?” The hazy outline of Harry’s figure across the alleyway took another swaying step towards them. Or perhaps the swaying was simply a hallucination on Draco’s part, which would make sense seeing as all his surroundings currently seemed to be spinning. “You tried to poison me with Acturin that night, and then you tried to kill me again just now. I’m your real target. So, here I am. Alone. Let him go and attack me.”

What a bloody stupid, reckless, suicidal fucking Gryffindor, Draco thought and opened his mouth to say as much. Or tried to—he appeared to have lost all feel in his face quite a few seconds ago.

“Attack the Chosen One, without a wand?” Yaxley barked an entirely mirthless laugh. “I may be slightly insane, Potter, but don’t make the mistake of thinking me a fool.”

Harry’s blurred shape stepped closer again, and Yaxley’s grip on Draco tightened some more, and in that moment, several things happened at once.

Draco was too far gone in his Moonroot-induced haze to be able to say exactly what happened, but one moment it was just the three of them, Yaxley holding Draco like a shield, Harry a few feet away, and the next there was chaos. At least half a dozen people appeared, and that’s when the shouting began, followed by a wild array of colours that Draco only subconsciously noted were spells and curses being flung through the cool night air, any one of which could have hit him and, paired with the Moonroot already in his bloodstream, easily turned fatal. Something that had been keeping him upwards let go, and suddenly he was falling, only momentarily able to relish the feeling until he hit something cold and hard.

And, under the starless dark night sky and colourful fireworks around him, he finally closed his eyes and let the shadows sweep him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments are immensely appreciated!


	8. dawn of a new day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week was rather shitty for me, so I've decided to post the next chapter today already in hopes that it might lighten my mood. So much for a regular upload schedule lol, sorry.

During his years at Hogwarts, it had been a recurring joke amongst the Gryffindors that Harry practically lived in the Hospital Wing. And although Harry had always maintained he was not to blame for it, there was no denying the accuracy of that particular statement. After leaving the school, Harry had hoped that’d be the last of it. However, he thought as he found himself for the second time that week sitting in a bright, spotless hospital room in St. Mungo’s, trying to keep his eyes open after a long night of no sleep, some things simply never changed.

At least it wasn’t him in the hospital bed this time, he mused, and immediately grimaced. Wow, okay, bad phrasing.

For the millionth time since he’d taken a seat in the less-than-comfortable chair by the door of the hospital room, his gaze drifted towards the bed, where the silver blond head of Draco Malfoy peeked out of the covers. Harry knew he likely should have taken Healer Hodkinson up on his offer to get some sleep in a hospital bed of his own. Merlin knew he was exhausted enough. But then he’d taken one look at Draco, paler than he’d ever seen him, left arm covered in thick bandages, eyes closed and looking so peaceful Harry felt a pang of dread every time he looked at the blond—and instead of climbing into a soft, comfortable bed of his own, he’d plopped down on the rock-hard chair by the door, blinked back his fatigue, and waited for Draco to wake.

He was still waiting.

The healers had assured him there would be no lasting damage. Draco would make a full recovery, he just needed to sleep off the potions the healers had given him the night before to combat the effects of the Moonroot. After that he’d be discharged, good as new, as though none of the previous night’s occurrences had ever happened.

Only they had. And the healers had already told Harry in no uncertain terms that, had he Apparated Draco to St. Mungo’s even a few minutes later, the Slytherin likely would not have survived until morning.

The notion was disturbing as it was upsetting. A week ago, Harry would have been shaken by Draco Malfoy’s death, but only as much as he would have been by the death of any other Auror colleague. Now, however, after how very much he felt they’d opened up to one another the day before, even if it had only been a few days since their paths had been thrown back together, the idea of Draco dying left him in a much worse state than what could be categorized under the term ‘shaken’.

And to think, the last things Harry had said to him had been cruel and undeserved. He still had no idea why he’d reacted so strongly after Draco’s altercation with Nic at the pub. Sure, he’d glimpsed a side of the Slytherin he’d never wanted to see again, the side that had reminded him of the sneering, drawling pureblood Draco had been at Hogwarts, the little mini-Lucius that repeated whatever his father said with no doubts wasted about its accuracy.

And yet that still didn’t warrant Harry’s reaction. He’d taken all the progress they’d made just hours before and shredded it to pieces, all with a few harsh words and well-aimed insults—none of which had been necessary. Granted, Harry had always been one to lose his temper fast, but _this_ , this had been simply too much, even for him. Not with any excuse or justification could Harry validate his reaction from the night before.

Especially when Draco Malfoy had gone and _saved him_.

Harry may not be Hermione Granger, but he was no fool; had Draco not thrown them both to the ground when Yaxley’s first curse hit, neither of them would be in St. Mungo’s right now. After all, there was no cure for death. But he had, and then he’d jumped up and charged after Yaxley like some bloody Gryffindor, as Harry was sure Draco would say right about now, engaging the dangerous and evidently deranged Death Eater in a duel the likes of which Harry hadn’t seen since the Battle of Hogwarts.

It was so out of character, so un-Draco-Malfoy-like, that Harry still couldn’t quite fathom it.

Except, no, that wasn’t true. Harry hadn’t been lying before when he’d told Draco he was a great Auror, more than great, even; the Slytherin protected those he loved with a passion he rarely let the outer world see. Albeit slightly preoccupied himself, Harry had caught glimpses of Draco during the Battle of Hogwarts, had seen how he’d duelled against people he’d once called family for the sake of what was right and never once slipped up. And then again during the Death Eater Trials, as Lucius Malfoy’s fate was decided, and Narcissa leaned on Draco, her frail shoulders shaking, while he in turn sat ramrod straight, grey gaze unyielding, refusing to shrink away under the glares and whispered insults, strong even as his father was taken away to Azkaban in chains. Hell, even now—regardless of his lifelong hatred of Harry, Draco had still agreed to stay with him around the clock and make sure he remained safe.

But guarding someone and actively putting one’s own life on the line to save that of another were two very different things. And frankly, Harry never would have expected the latter from Draco Malfoy, not in a hundred years.

Yet here they were.

And what had Draco gotten for his trouble? A near-death experience and another Harry-induced scar to add to his collection.

Harry sighed and rubbed at his eyes in an effort to keep them from drooping shut. A quick glance at the clock mounted on the wall across the room revealed it was barely after seven. Harry sighed and leaned back in his chair, bemoaning the state his back would doubtlessly be in at the end of the day—and immediately shot back up again when the door flew open.

Ron was wearing his scarlet Auror robes, which, as Ginny had always loved to point out (before she started avoiding Harry like the plague, of course) clashed horribly with his hair, while Hermione’s hair on the other hand looked even frizzier than normal, as though she’d only just rolled out of bed. Which, Harry thought as he took in his friends’ bleary-eyed faces, actually seemed entirely possible.

“Harry!” Hermione yelped, and her brown eyes went wide as they in turn took in his no doubt miserable appearance—and then instantaneously narrowed. “What are you _doing_ here? You should be at home, resting! This is just typical, isn’t it, you nearly get killed—for the second time this week, mind you—and yet you still seem to be of the impression no worldly power could possibly harm you. Well, guess what, Harry, you’re not immune to exhaustion or stress or _life_. Why, I have half a mind to drag you home myself and put a sticking charm on the bed if that’s what it takes to get you to get some goddamn rest for once in your _bloody_ life—”

“Mione, love, calm down,” Ron said then, resting a gentle hand on his fiancée’s shoulder, who, much to Harry’s surprise, actually went quiet with an indignant little huff—although Hermione’s glare did not soften, nor did her cross-armed posture become any less rigid. Harry opened his mouth to thank his friend for the interruption…and promptly closed it again when he noted the hard set of Ron’s own mouth. Ron shook his head, and the worry lines creasing his friend’s usually so cheerful face twisted something in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

“Harry. Mate,” Ron said, and the sheer amount of weariness in his tone instantly cleared away any lingering fatigue Harry might have felt, replaced instead by shock. “We only just heard about last night. When I got to the office, everyone was talking about how Yaxley attacked you in Diagon, and it was a right mess, and there was some sort of poisoned dagger involved, and you were here… So I got Mione and we immediately Apparated here, and then the Welcome Witch told us it was Malfoy that got injured, and…” Three pairs of eyes shifted to the bed across the room, and Harry felt his own chest become oddly tight.

“Anyway,” Ron continued, clearing his throat. “What I’m trying to say is, mate, you scared us. We thought Yaxley might have actually gotten you this time. I mean, you two had to face him alone, you and Malfoy, who knows what could have happened.” He gave a half-strangled, half-barked laugh. “Bloody hell, _Corban Yaxley_. I still don’t want to believe it. The Death Eater who was in charge of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission alongside Umbridge. For fuck’s sake, Harry, you could have _died_. And I know you may think you can’t die, but one day it’ll happen.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again, then finally decided on a gentle, cautious, “Everyone dies, Ron.”

But this, it seemed, was not the right thing to say. Immediately, a scowl overtook Ron’s face. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Harry! You know that’s not what I meant, so don’t even try to downplay you almost dying— _again_.”

A strained silence ensued, in which Harry didn’t know what to say, how to react. His friends’ concern was nothing new, and yet it still hit him like the Knight Bus at full-speed every time he had to watch them get all tight-faced and concerned about his wellbeing. Even now, with years and years having passed since Harry had last been even remotely near Privet Drive, such unconditional love and loyalty was oftentimes still a novel concept to him. Sometimes, Harry would still find himself wondering when his friends would finally come to their senses and realize he didn’t deserve any of it, didn’t deserve them, didn’t deserve their help or trust or affection—but that day had yet to come.

And so, he swallowed hard, and nodded. “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. Yaxley…he caught me off guard, caught both of us off guard…” At that, his eyes trailed back over to Draco’s bed, and Harry went quiet, the lump in his throat making any further words impossible.

When his gaze returned to Ron and Hermione, their previous tight faces were gone, replaced instead by pity. “Oh, Harry,” said Hermione simply, and without another word she rushed forwards to envelop him in a bone-crushing hug, flinging her arms around him and holding tight as though he might slip away otherwise. And although Harry was still sore from the fight the night before, he let her, hugging his best friend back without hesitation.

When she finally let go again and stepped back, Ron looked tempted to hug him as well. But Harry’s lingering pain must have been more visible than he’d thought, for the redhead wisely abstained. Instead, he said, “So, Malfoy. Is he…?”

“He’ll make a full recovery,” Harry answered instantly, repeating Healer Hodkinson’s words. God knows he’d had the man recite it often enough. “Bunch of bruises and cuts and a mild concussion, but nothing the healers couldn’t take care of. He’ll be out cold for a few more hours, though, sleeping off the healing potions. The main problem was the Moonroot. Yaxley’d coated his dagger with it, and when he cut Draco it seeped into his bloodstream. It was…a close call.” He wasn’t sure he could say much else, not without his voice becoming pitifully strained.

But neither Hermione nor Ron asked for any further details, bless them, instead simply looking sympathetic. “To be honest, I wasn’t sold on the idea of Malfoy watching over you at first,” Ron said, and had it not been for the sombre atmosphere, Harry would have snorted aloud at that slight little understatement. Ron looked over at where Draco still slept peacefully, a thoughtful look on his face. “But if he hadn’t been there… You’re lucky, Harry. Really damn lucky.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. “I know.”

Hermione sunk into the chair beside his, and Ron went to stand by her side, a hand already subconsciously reaching out for hers, which she took without even glancing up. “Yaxley,” she said, but by the pensive gleam in her eyes and the tight press of her lips, Harry assumed she was thinking aloud. “ _How_ did we not realize it was Yaxley? Or, if not him, some other Death Eater escaped from Azkaban. They certainly have motive, plus they’re all just about deranged enough to try and off the Saviour of the Wizarding World.”

Harry flinched, but Hermione was too deep in thought to notice.

“And that Craigs woman!” she continued exasperatedly. “Before, I’d have said she must have purposefully withheld Yaxley’s identity when you went to question her, Harry. Only I’ve seen her memories of the Acturin-deal, and there really was no recognizing him. It could have just as easily been you or me. So, either he’s gotten incredibly skilled at Disillusionment Charms, or he’s got a stash of Polyjuice. Which, when you think about it, is so much more concerning, because that means he could come waltzing in here disguised as Healer Hodkinson and we’d not know to be alarmed until Harry’s slumped dead in his chair!”

Awkward silence filled the room, and Hermione had the decency to look distressed when she realized what exactly it was she’d just said. “God, Harry, I’m sorry. That’s…good lord, that was rather tactless, wasn’t it?”

Ron grimaced slightly, but squeezed her hand reassuringly, nonetheless. “Bit.”

Hermione sighed and raked a hand through her hair. “I didn’t mean to alarm you further. You must be so stressed as it is, and me barging in here blathering on about how much danger you’re in surely isn’t helping. It’s just… Well, this might sound stupid, seeing as you work as an Auror, but, Harry, after the war finally ended, I thought the danger was over. That we might finally get a break. God knows we need it—you more than any of us.” She breathed a laugh. “And now there’s another Death Eater after you. It’s all quite laughable, isn’t it? In an entirely mirthless way, of course.”

Harry fixed Hermione with a small but utterly genuine smile. It was a little sad, but when Hermione looked up, the way her shoulders relaxed, a sliver of tension leaving her misleadingly dainty form, made it instantly worth it. “We’ll get through this, Mione. We got Yaxley imprisoned once; we’ll do it again. Besides, after Voldemort, he’s nothing.”

She laughed at that, and although it was hardly more than a strangled little huff, Harry’s smile widened at the sound, a flake of the tension still smothering his chest lifting.

“So,” he said, keen to change the topic. Hermione’s dark eyes were already dangerously misty, and he wanted to avoid her breaking down any further if at all possible. For it was a fact of life just as universally valid as breathing or eating or sleeping that, if Hermione Granger ever broke down, the rest of the world was soon to follow. “Have either of you seen Robards?”

Ron’s frown deepened, and Harry only belatedly realized it wasn’t as much a drastic topic change as he’d intended. “Matter of fact, I did. Might have sort of barged into his office when I heard about Yaxley and you, just to confirm it was true. Anyway, I’ve never seen the man this stressed, not even when you accidently blew up that safehouse last year. He’s got practically everyone in the department out looking for Yaxley. Only reason I’m not out searching myself is because I wanted to make sure you’re alright first.” He glanced over at the clock, and his frown grew still. “Bollocks, I really ought to get going. Robards’ got me teamed up with Gerhard since you’re unavailable, and that bloke’s not the sort that takes kindly to tardiness, let me tell you.” He shot Harry a grimace, torn between his worry for Harry and his new-found haste to get to work. “Mate, is it okay if I…?”

Harry smiled and gestured towards the door. “Go. I wouldn’t want Gerhard murdering you because of me. One murderer is more than enough to deal with.”

Ron frowned. “You sure? I really don’t mind—”

“ _Go_. Seriously, Ron. I’m fine.”

Ron still looked unconvinced, but eventually he gave a curt nod. He planted a quick peck on Hermione’s cheek, squeezing her shoulder once, then hurried back towards the door. He was already half-way over the threshold when he paused and turned back around.

“Oh, almost forgot. Robards told me to tell you that, as long as Malfoy’s still on board with it, he’ll be staying on as your temporary bodyguard. Yesterday was a close call, and, again, without Malfoy there to help, who knows how it might have ended. So, yeah. Just so you know.”

The ensuing wave of relief Harry felt at that moment was so immense and inexplicable he was temporarily floored. However, he quickly recovered and said simply with a grateful smile, “Thanks, Ron. Sounds good. Now _go_.”

And, with one last worried frown in Harry’s direction, Ron did.

At his right, Harry could feel Hermione’s piercing gaze on him as well, and he turned to her with the same smile he’d very pointedly offered Ron a few moments earlier. “Yes?”

Hermione pursed her lips slightly. She didn’t answer at first, and Harry was beginning to think she wouldn’t at all, until she asked, “Has your opinion of Malfoy…changed any, over the past couple days? After all, he’s with you all the time, plus I can imagine going through an ordeal like yesterday might make you…consider him in a different light.” Harry had abso-bloody-lutely no clue what to answer to _that_. But luckily Hermione continued, slower this time, more cautious, “The war’s over, Harry. The world has moved on. Perhaps it’s time you do as well.”

Harry scowled, feeling suddenly defensive, although he couldn’t quite say why. “I know the war’s over, Mione. And I have moved on.”

But Hermione simply laid a comforting hand on his arm and said gently, “I know that. And I’m proud of you for it. But, what I’m trying to say is, Harry, there is still so much in here”—she tapped his forehead—“that needs venting. And if you’re not willing to go to a Mind Healer for it, then you’re going to have to take the reins yourself. Maybe making amends with Malf-Draco could help. And I mean _amends_ , not some half-truce that’ll get broken again the next time either of you get tetchy.”

Harry couldn’t hold on to his defensiveness, not under Hermione’s sage gaze, and most certainly not under the undeniability of her words. So, he sighed. “You’re right, as always. I’ll…talk to him. Once he wakes up.”

Hermione smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

She stood, and when Harry remained seated, pulled him up as well. “Oh, no, you aren’t staying here a minute longer. Those chairs are bloody uncomfortable, and you clearly need some rest.” When Harry started to protest, Hermione held up a hand, which promptly put him back into silence. “No buts. You look miserable. I wasn’t kidding earlier; if you don’t go home now by your own accord, I’ll drag you there myself.” At his frown, her face softened a fracture. “Look, I promise we’ll drop by soon. Just…get some sleep, okay?”

And, although he’d love to argue, Harry’s drooping eyes and sleep-craving body begged to differ, and so he found himself nodding. “Fine. But I expect owled updates. Hourly.”

Hermione laughed. “And you say I’m bossy.”

* * *

Draco awoke with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

There were bandages across his chest, and he was in a semi-comfortable bed, staring up at a ceiling so clean and white and bleak he had to be in a hospital room. The dull memory of pain still crackled through his body, and when he tried to sit up, spots instantly engulfed his vision, forcing him to lay back down, head buzzing.

Salazar, he thought bitterly, it was like Sixth Year all over again.

Only this time, he hadn’t been almost killed _by_ Harry Potter, but _for_ Harry Potter.

How the tides had turned. And all because of one stupid fucking goddamn tattoo, that—

Draco’s eyes went wide, and, ignoring the brief flash of pain the hasty motion brought on, tore his right arm out from under the blankets. Only to see the sleeve and leather band having previously hidden the mark from view unmistakably gone.

Undiluted panic flooded Draco. He was in a hospital, presumably St. Mungo’s. And although hospital staff was clearly prohibited from discussing their patients with the outside world, that rule merely covered said patients’ ailments, didn’t it, and not whether or not Draco Malfoy had the name Harry James Potter stamped onto his right wrist. Anyone could have seen, for fuck’s sake, _Harry_ could have seen—

Harry. Oh Merlin.

Draco had thrown back the covers and flung his legs over the edge of the bed before the rest of his body had opportunity to protest, and by the time vertigo caught up to him, he was already standing. However, it caught up fast, and Draco’s vision went completely dark, and he could feel his legs give out from under him.

“Careful there,” a soft, deep voice said, and two firm hands closed around his arm, effectively stopping him from collapsing in a heap of useless limbs.

Draco’s head whipped around so fast he risked whiplash, and he started blinking furiously, willing the spots to go away, heart all the while raging against his ribcage with its wild beat, because was that, could it be—

Blaise.

It was goddamn Blaise Zabini that held Draco steady, clothed head to toe in healer’s white, his black, impeccably styled hair a cruel mockery of the similarly coloured rat’s nest Draco would much rather be face to face with right about now.

When he saw Draco’s sour expression, Blaise’s smile morphed into a truly shit-eating grin. “Disappointed much? I know you’d rather I were someone else, say, someone with a lightning scar and horrendously ugly glasses—but must you be so obvious about it? It’s wounding, really. I save your life, and this is the thanks I get. Consider me wounded.”

Draco glared at his so-called friend and wrenched his arm out of Blaise’s grip, silently glad when he didn’t immediately collapse. “I sincerely doubt you saved my life. You don’t even have your license yet.”

Blaise’s grin didn’t waver. “Okay, fine, so maybe it wasn’t me alone. But I did help. Plus, I made sure no one saw that dreadfully conspicuous little tattoo you’ve got there—and I don’t mean the one on your left forearm.”

At that, Draco paled, and his left hand immediately flew to his right wrist. “No one saw?”

Noting Draco’s very genuine, very deep-rooted fear, Blaise’s grin softened. “No one. I made certain of it. The undressing and re-dressing part was a bit of a problem, not to mention the actual healing procedure, but I managed to put a temporary Disillusionment Charm on the mark long enough that none of the healers working on you saw. So, there’s no need to worry. Your secret’s safe.”

Draco didn’t bother conceal the relief that engulfed him then, like a tidal wave crashing down on an unsuspecting fisher’s boat, and he sighed and let himself fall back onto the bed. “Thank Salazar.”

He didn’t miss Blaise frowning slightly from where he still stood by Draco’s bed, dark eyes fixed on the cursive letters peeking out from under the fingers of Draco’s left hand. “He was here, by the way. Potter, I mean. Stayed the entire night in that chair right by the door.” He pointed at a particularly uncomfortable-looking chair, and Draco’s heart missed a beat.

“Here?” he said, although it came out as more of a squeak than anything, so Draco cleared his throat and tried again. “Harry Potter stayed in that chair…all night?” _For me?_

The corners of Blaise’s mouth twitched, but he wisely kept his thoughts to himself. “Yup. Actually, I thought he was still here. If I’d known Potter had left, I would have come in earlier. I’m glad he did, though. Last time I saw him, he looked like death personified.”

Draco blinked. Opened his mouth. Blinked again. “Harry Potter. Here. As in, right there. All night.”

“Oh, Merlin’s balls, Draco, don’t tell me he’s managed to project his ineloquence upon you. It’s been _half a week_. I shudder to think how he’ll have influenced you once a full week has passed. Perhaps you’ll be sporting red all the time, hollering Quidditch hymns at the top of your lungs while hanging off the side of the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower.” Blaise sighed dramatically. “If this is how life with a soulmate looks, then count me the hell out.”

Draco snorted, finally having shaken his momentary daze. “Whatever is the matter? Are the near-death experiences deterring you? Late-night duels with Death Eaters? Nights spent at St. Mungo’s?”

Blaise chuckled. “Nah, all that sounds fun. It’s how downright ridiculous you get whenever anyone so much as mentions the name Harry Potter—and don’t even get me started on what happens when you two are actually in the same room. It’s humiliating, Draco. _Humiliating_.”

One look at the grin still stretching across Blaise’s face and the twinkle in his eyes, and Draco only snorted, whacking Blaise on the arm. “Prick. We’ll see how well _you_ fare once you meet your soulmate, shall we?”

Blaise shook his head, still grinning, but Draco didn’t miss how his left hand surreptitiously flew to his right wrist, tugging at the sleeve of his white healer robes. Instead of a name, his soulmark was still nothing but a simple _L_ (rather ugly, too, in Draco’s opinion, nothing like the penmanship of _his_ soulmark). Blaise had yet to find his soulmate, but the day he did, Draco vowed the most epic teasing of all time would commence, as payback for all the shit Blaise had given Draco over the years for his crush on Harry.

“Not that I’m not enjoying our little talk,” Draco said, “but I’d best be off. Places to be, people to see, and all that nonsense.” He stood again, and this time, the spots only briefly speckled his vision, so he counted it as a full win.

But Blaise stepped in front of him, blocking his exit. “Good one, Draco, but you aren’t going anywhere. There are still some tests we need to run before you can leave, and Healer Hodkinson—”

“I doubt that blundering fool knows the difference between Foxglove and Belladonna. Plus, remember, I have orders from Head Auror Robards not to leave Potter’s side—who, I think it’s safe to say after yesterday’s fiasco, obviously needs a capable hand to keep him from flinging himself through death’s door. So, send Healer Hodkinson my sincerest apologies, but duty calls.”

Blaise was not impressed. “A capable hand now, are you?” His gaze flickered down to Draco’s wrist. “You sure this whole duty-bound-business has nothing to do with that soulmark you’re currently clutching like a lifeline? It nearly got you killed yesterday, and yet here you are, anxious to jump right back in.”

Draco scowled. “I’m an Auror, Blaise. Danger’s quite literally in the job description. Where’s all this new-found concern coming from?”

For the first time all day, Blaise’s grin disappeared. “It’s not new-found and you know it. Look, I realize Potter’s…important to you, but those of us who love you are worried. You woke up a minute ago and now you’re already raring to throw yourself back into danger. You haven’t even considered your mum yet, have you? She’s worried sick. Even came here to see you last night.”

At this, Draco stopped dead in his tracks. “She…what?” Narcissa Malfoy had practically not set foot outside of Malfoy Manor since the day of Lucius’ trial, so for her to have actually made the journey to St. Mungo’s, where the hallways teemed with people and any single one of them could be a hateful sadist ready to throw all the Malfoys’ failures back at them with a few well-aimed insults—it was enormous.

A soft smile reappeared on Blaise’s face. “Yes. Granted, she didn’t stay more than an hour, but were it not for everyone else being here, she’d have remained by your bedside all night. She really loves you, Draco. We all do. And I’m glad you and Potter are getting along, just…be careful, okay?”

Draco was still shocked by this newest revelation about his mother, and he breathed, “Can I… I should go see her. I should—” He started past Blaise, but the other man’s hands quickly settled on Draco’s arms, effectively stopping him once again from running out the door.

“Pansy’s with your mum right now. She’s resting. Stayed up all night, frantic about you. I think it’s best we let her sleep, yeah? You can Floo her later, once she’s awake again and in a…less fragile state. I’ll have Pansy send you an owl.”

Draco could only nod, still dazed.

Blaise looked at him for a long while, gaze unreadable. Then he patted Draco on the shoulder before letting him go again. “You know what, on second thought, I think you going back to Potter’s flat might not be such a horrendous idea after all. Knowing him, he’s likely duelling Voldemort’s secret evil daughter as we speak and could use your…capable hands. I’ll sort everything out with Healer Hodkinson. In case you need to come back for a check-up, I’ll owl you, yeah?”

Draco had no clue what might have instigated this sudden about-face, but he wasn’t about to complain. “Right. Sure. You do that. I’ll just…” He motioned towards the door, then quickly clamped his hand over his soulmark again, as though some reporter from the Daily Prophet might be lurking under the bed, camera at the ready.

Blaise chuckled. “Let’s get you dressed first. After all, you need to look your best if you’re going to win over Harry Potter.”

~~~

There would be, as it turned out, little ‘winning over Harry Potter’ that day. For, when Draco Apparated back to Harry’s flat, he found it just as atrociously red as it had been the day before, but much, much emptier.

“Potter?” Draco called, but only silence answered him. He tried again, “Harry?”

Still nothing. Draco’s chest tightened, and sudden unease coursed through him. Perhaps he was the slightest bit paranoid after yesterday’s incident, but he had every reason to be. And since Blaise had assured him Harry was back at his flat, that Granger and Weasley had talked sense into him and made him go home, the silence unsettled him more than it perhaps should have. For there was no one there.

Had something happened? Draco’s gaze shifted to the door. It was locked, with no signs of forced entry. But there were other ways to enter an apartment, especially if you had magic on your side.

Draco drew his wand and started slowly, quietly, combing his way through the flat. No upturned furniture, or any other previously-inexistent mess that might indicate a struggle. And had Harry been attacked, regardless of whether he looked like ‘death personified’ or not, Salazar knows there’d have been a struggle. Yet this realization only calmed Draco somewhat, and he kept his wand at the ready.

Suddenly, there was a muffled crash, and Draco whirled around towards the origin of the sound—a door on the far side of the hallway, slightly ajar.

Problem is, Draco didn’t know what the bloody hell he’d do if he found Yaxley lurking on the other side of that door. Although he’d rather collapse from exhaustion than admit it aloud, he knew he was still a far cry from ‘healed’. Moving still took far more energy than it should, and his mind was a lot slower than he was accustomed to. Plus, he doubted any hectic spells cast now would be very effective at all, seeing as his magical core was apparently still damaged and only slowly recovering, to quote Blaise—provided said spells even hit their target in the first place.

So, all in all, barging planlessly into the room was perhaps not the smartest move.

That didn’t stop him from doing it.

Damn, Draco though faintly as he flung open the door, wand lifted high, Blaise had been right—Harry’s Gryffindor tendencies really were rubbing off on him.

Yet it was his calculating Slytherin eye that immediately took in every single detail of the room, however tiny and trivial it may seem, and immediately relaxed when he realized that, no, there were no murderous Death Eaters lurking behind the door or hiding in the curtains, poised to attack.

…and then promptly froze again when Draco realized just where he was.

Before having set foot in Harry’s flat, he’d always expected it to look the way it did. Draco had acted all shocked and horrified at the sight of all the red (not that it wasn’t indeed horrifying), but in truth he hadn’t expected anything else from Harry, who truly was so through-and-through Gryffindor that it hurt. But when Draco had imagined Harry’s actual room, the sight that now greeted him had never, not once, not _ever_ crossed his mind.

It was…practically tasteful. So much so that all the haughty remarks he’d passed that first day in the flat became suddenly inapplicable. Granted, there was still far too much red and gold for Draco’s Slytherin heart, but other than that the room was spacious and clean and elegantly stylish. There were two large, floor-to-ceiling sized windows on one side of the room, framed by gauzy curtains that couldn’t have hid a murderous Death Eater if he was wearing an Invisibility Cloak, bordered on one side by a large bookshelf filled with everything from Quidditch supplies to picture frames to—Merlin’s beard— _actual books_. There was a large cactus sitting in a corner by the windows, little flowers blooming all over its prickly green skin. On the other side of the room was a naked brick wall, propped up to which was a large four-poster bed.

A bed, on which the sleeping, mussy-haired form of one Harry Potter lay sprawled across the red covers, one leg dangling over the side of the bed, chest rising and falling in slow, soft breaths. The sight robbed Draco of his own breath. Even when in the company of his closest friends, Harry never stopped being alert, guarded, as though someone might come jumping out of the shadows at any moment and start wildly flinging curses. After all Harry’s been through, it was no wonder.

And yet here he lay, for once wholly and utterly at peace.

It made him seem infinitely younger, softer, like he would perhaps look in a world where Voldemort hadn’t murdered his parents at the age of one, where he hadn’t had to fight for survival every year since in a world where everyone either wanted something from him, or wanted him dead.

Draco’s gaze shifted to the floor beside Harry’s bed, where a plate lay broken on the cherry-wood floor, what seemed to be a sandwich scattered in pieces of bread and cheese next to it. There was a piece of paper there, as well, and when Draco Accio’d it to his hand, he was surprised, yet simultaneously not at all, to find Hermione Granger’s neat scrawl imprinted there.

_Harry,_

_Please eat something when you wake up. Your body will recover quicker if there’s sustenance in it. Here’s some grilled cheese, I know it’s your favourite. Also, try not to do anything excessively stupid in the few hours you’re without a chaperone._

_Love, Hermione_

Draco chuckled despite himself. Out of all Harry’s friends, he’d always been fondest of Granger. Although it had infuriated him to no end back at Hogwarts, she truly was the smartest witch he knew and one of the smartest people, period. But it warmed his heart to know that Harry had someone like her to take care of him when the Gryffindor was too busy saving the world to do it himself.

Draco cast a quick Reparo on the plate, and gathered up the pieces of sandwich, careful to be quiet as not to wake Harry, who still slumbered peacefully. Then he stood, and walked back across the room, plate and smashed sandwich in hand. He allowed himself one last glance over his shoulder and smiled.

Having Harry Potter as a soulmate wasn’t remotely easy, and it wasn’t always pretty, and it sure could be dangerous as all hell at times, as yesterday went to show. But goddamn if it wasn’t the most amazing thing that had ever happened to Draco in his miserable life.

And so, quietly, all the while still smiling, he slipped out the door, and left Harry to his well-deserved rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. You didn’t honestly think I would ever kill off Draco, did you? To quote my beautiful cinnamon roll Blaise: It’s wounding. Consider me wounded. I admit there may be a decent amount of angst in this fic, but at the end of the day it isn’t out to hurt you, promise. Howeverrrrr, while Drarry is 1000% endgame, their journey is far from over. I’m really sorry to all those who were looking for a (relatively) quick read, but brevity has never and likely will never be a strong suit of mine, especially not regarding writing. Please be patient with me, I promise it’ll be worth the wait in the end!!   
> Okay, that’s all for now. Again, thank you so, so, so much for reading! You guys are literally the best!!


	9. A is for amends, B is for baby steps and C is for chocolate cake

It was a loud clatter that awoke Harry, followed by an angry string of impressively creative curses. And although that was certainly a hell of a lot less pleasant than being coaxed into consciousness by the soft rays of dawn, as far as getting him out of bed, it definitely did the trick.

Harry shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose and half-rolled, half-fell out of bed with a little yelp, only dimly noting the large platter filled with at least three grilled cheese sandwiches that perched on his nightstand. But then he was already stumbling out his room and down the hall into the kitchen, wand drawn, where the clatter had originated.

Harry had emergency plans in case someone decided to break into his flat, had since the day he first visited the apartment. There were more than a few alarms set to dissuade any would-be burglars from actually breaking in, plus more protection and Anti-Apparation wards than was likely considered appropriate. But Harry had long since stopped caring about trivialities like what was ‘considered appropriate’—he’d been hunted by Voldemort and his followers for most of his life, so, as Harry saw it, he had every right to be slightly paranoid, thank you very much.

Yet as he barrelled into the kitchen, every single one of those numerous, well-thought-out plans evaporated in thin air when faced with the sight that awaited him there. Harry had encountered many a mindboggling situation in his life. He had come to expect the unexpected, predict the unpredictable. He had thought nothing could surprise him anymore, not after the war and Auror training directly afterwards.

But.

Either Harry was still sleeping and this was all an incredibly realistic-feeling dream his exhaustion-addled mind had whipped up…or that really was Draco Malfoy looming menacingly over a bowl of chocolate cake batter, clad in what seemed to be Hermione’s old pale pink apron, flower and melted chocolate coating his hands and sleeves, looking equal parts furious and fanatical as he glowered down at the innocent batter.

Harry blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Squinted. Blinked again. And yet the image stayed the same. Then Draco started cursing, and the mystery of earlier’s disembodied expletives was promptly solved.

“Bloody goddamn piece of fucking _shite_ —”

Another crash sounded, and as Draco whirled around, grey eyes wide, hand mixer raised in front of him like a handgun, Harry only belatedly realized he had knocked over the flower vase on the table beside him.

And now Draco Malfoy was gaping at him like a deer in headlights…while Harry gaped right back.

There was a long beat of silence in which neither party quite seemed to know how to react to the other. Then Draco blinked and, hand mixer still held high, said, “You’re awake.”

Harry quickly forced himself to swallow his own surprise. So he’d just caught Draco red-handed in the complicated process of baking what appeared to be a chocolate cake. So the Slytherin, who had never once wasted an opportunity to make fun of Harry’s taste in fashion—or lack thereof—was currently wearing a pale pink apron with flowers stitched into it. So what? It was fine. All of it. Just fine. Not a big deal at all.

Yeah, no, who was he kidding, it totally was.

“You’re…baking,” Harry said stupidly, his surprise evidently still coating his mind thicker than he’d initially assumed. “And…wearing Hermione’s old apron.”

Draco looked down at the apron, but instead of tearing it from his body, sneering and screeching about mudblood filth and blood-purity and all that shite, he simply frowned slightly and said, “Granger’s? Hmm, yes, that does make more sense than it being yours.”

Harry did not even know what to say to that.

Thankfully, Draco was already continuing, “Does Granger do all the baking, or do you have any idea how to do this?” He shot a sullen look at the cake batter, which, now that Harry had gotten over his initial shock, he realized was for the most part located _outside_ the bowl rather than actually within. “I think I messed it up. Not to mention I can’t figure this stupid muggle device out.” The pureblood gave the mixer an especially disparaging sneer. “Bloody muggles, always have to make everything so damn complicated.”

The exhaustion-induced-dream-idea was seeming more and more probable to Harry with every word out of the Slytherin’s mouth, only he was also fairly certain he wasn’t dreaming at all. No, even in sleep, his brain wasn’t near imaginative enough to dream _this_ up. So back to confusion it was.

“Wait a second,” Harry said, ignoring the eye roll it earned him. “You’re here. Why are you here? You’re supposed to be in St. Mungo’s, recovering from almost being murdered by Yaxley yesterday—”

“Day before yesterday.” The Slytherin sounded bored, as though almost being murdered by Corban Yaxley was hardly notable enough to be mentioned in casual conversation.

Harry blinked. “What?”

“The attack was the day before yesterday. I was discharged yesterday morning. You, Potter, slept a full twenty-four hours. Congratulations. Didn’t even think _you_ could reach that level of lazy.”

Harry searched the blond’s expression for the typical sneer that accompanied his scathing remarks, searched his tone for any hint of haughty disdain. And although Draco was plenty haughty, that, Harry was fairly certain, was simply part of his nature just as much as breathing and eating and, apparently, insulting Harry. Yet, despite the obvious sarcasm lacing the Slytherin’s words, there was no aggression, no anger, no real heat at all behind them.

Whilst sitting in that god-awful hospital chair, waiting for Draco to wake up, Harry had had plenty of time to think about things—including how he’d spent an entire evening with Draco Malfoy of all people, talking and laughing as though they’d been friends all their life, drinking copious amounts of Butterbeer like they were back at Hogwarts. After that eye-opening experience, there was no way Harry could look at the blond in the same way he had before, no feasible way he could consider him an enemy anymore.

And then the git had gone and _saved his bloody life_.

Hermione was right—no more half-truces. _Amends_.

“Draco, I’d like to—no—I _need_ to thank you,” Harry said. “For saving my life, obviously, because had you not been there, I’d be dead now. But…also for the pub.” He took a deep breath, all the while feeling the weight of those grey eyes on him. “Talking with you was surprisingly nice. Oh, err, sorry, that came out wrong. What I mean is, I enjoyed it very much. Much more than I do fighting with you. Look, afterwards, when we left the pub…I honestly don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry for everything. I reacted cruelly and unjustly and said some pretty horrible things. I didn’t mean any of them, I was just so _angry_ for some reason, and if I could take them back, I swear I would—”

“Don’t.”

Harry looked up, surprised to find Draco’s face smoothed into a sombre expression, grey eyes flickering across Harry’s face. The Slytherin sighed and set down the mixer, and in that moment it cracked something in Harry’s chest seeing how disheartened and exhausted and hopeless Draco looked.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “Apologizing implies you were out of line, which you weren’t. The things you said may not have been exactly enjoyable to hear, but not a single one of them was strictly speaking untrue. You obviously needed to get it out of your system, and I knew even then you didn’t really mean it.”

“I—” Harry was momentarily too stunned to reply. But then shock made way for frustration, and frustration made way for anger. Just not at Draco. “How can you _say_ that? Of course I was out of line! Everything we’d discussed before, the progress we made—I acted like none of it ever happened! God, I practically implied you _chose_ to take the Dark Mark! Why aren’t you pissed? _I’m_ pissed!”

Draco gave a chuckle, but it sounded as miserable as he looked. “I can see that. But it doesn’t matter anymore, truly. Forgive and forget and all that, right?”

“But…but…,” Harry stammered. Why wasn’t Draco flinging that bowl of batter at Harry’s head? He bloody well _deserved_ a bowl of batter to the head!

“Harry.”

For some reason Draco’s usage of his first name calmed Harry much more than he’d ever thought possible. It reminded him that, yes, although he had royally fucked up outside the pub, the progress they’d made before that had been _real_ , and it was going to take more than him losing his temper and being an arsehole to negate that.

Draco sighed. “I was out of line, you were out of line, we were both out of line—what difference does it make who said what. I’m still willing to keep to our truce, so there’s no need to get all frantic.”

He said it with a hint of wry humour—but Harry couldn’t bring himself to laugh, or chuckle, or even smile. The resignation in the Slytherin’s tone, the quiet acceptance that a measly half-truce was all the two of them could ever be trusted to have…it was the last straw.

“No.”

For the first time, Harry saw plain shock flash across Draco’s ivory features, accompanied by a pang of panic that made Harry’s gut twist.

But Harry simply continued calmly, “No more truces.” He took three great big steps forwards, until he stood directly in front of Draco, whose grey eyes went wide. “I know you’re a Slytherin, but the real world doesn’t have truces. In the real world, people have friends.” And, with that, Harry raised his right hand and stretched it towards Draco. “So. How about it, Malfoy? Friends?”

Draco stared at Harry’s outstretched hand so long Harry began to fear he wouldn’t answer at all. Harry didn’t notice, but those grey eyes were trained not only on the hand extended in the same fashion Draco himself had once held out his own—but also on the _D_ so obviously displayed on Harry’s wrist, no sleeve or leather band to hide it. But then Draco looked up, and their gazes interlocked. A small, soft smile twisted across the Slytherin’s lips.

And he reached out and took Harry’s hand.

“Yes. Friends.”

Harry grinned and gave Draco’s chocolate-stained hand a little shake. “I hope you realize this means you have to accept my apology. Friends do that sort of thing.”

Draco laughed, and although it was a far cry from the unrestrained cheer he’d practically radiated the other night at the pub, it was still genuine enough that Harry’s grin broadened even more. “Fine. Let’s just both try to keep the insults to a minimum from now on, that way neither of us will ever have to apologize again. Frankly, it’s degrading, Potter.”

Harry simply snorted. “What, acting like an actual human being?” He paused. “Also, it’s Harry, remember.”

Draco’s smile grew as well. He nodded. “Harry.”

They stood there for a long, long moment, hands still clasped in between them, Draco’s disaster of a baking attempt in ruins all around them, the flat incredibly silent and still all of a sudden. Harry could hear his own heart beating in his ears, could feel it pick up on speed, and all the while he couldn’t stop staring into Draco’s eyes. He’d always thought they were stormy grey, like his father’s, always clouded with some sort of hateful emotion that could darken them to pitch-black in a split-second if the situation necessitated it. Yet Draco’s eyes were not his father’s at all—they were his own, two rings of the purest molten silver, piercing and radiant and beautiful.

Just like that, Harry’s thoughts shuddered to a stop. Fucking hell, what was _wrong_ with him? Had he just—God, he really had just called Draco Malfoy’s eyes _beautiful_! And it didn’t matter that he’d only done so mentally, it didn’t matter that Draco hadn’t heard, that he didn’t know what traitorous, _bizarre_ thoughts had infiltrated Harry’s brain. Because Harry knew, and that was more than enough.

He quickly averted his gaze and took one hasty step backwards, letting Draco’s hand drop as though it were a burning piece of coal. “I, err…you…uhm. So. The baking. Why were you…?”

Draco snorted. “Why am I standing in your kitchen, baking a chocolate cake with a muggle device from hell that seems intent on taking off my fingers?”

Harry could only nod.

“Well.” The blond sighed and raked a hand through his hair, which resulted in remnants of both flour and chocolate sticking to the usually so immaculate silvery blond strands. Harry’s eyes suddenly found the floorboards very interesting indeed. “I went to see my mother yesterday, to see how she was holding up. She essentially told me I could either quit my job as an Auror entirely and move back into the Manor, or haul ass back here and make sure no one tried to murder you in your sleep. And I happen to quite like my job, so I’m afraid it wasn’t much of a decision at all. Afterwards, I didn’t have much to do, seeing as Blaise has to work, and Pansy’s with mum, the latter of which threatened to hex me if I asked her how she was doing one more time. So…chocolate cake it was.” He paused. “Err, I hope you don’t mind me using your kitchen.”

“’Course not. It’s yours, too, now, remember?”

Draco smiled carefully. “Oh. Thanks.” His eyes shifted to the floor, and he admitted quietly, “Baking always calms me, to be honest. Not that I’ve ever done it the muggle way before. Obviously. But…well. Mum’s always trying to protect me, and I love her for it. Only she seems to forget she might just need protection every once in a while, too.” That reminded Harry of what Robards and Hermione had told him when Draco was first assigned to his side, and he had to smile softly. It felt like an age had passed since.

“Is she…well?” Harry asked. “Your mother I mean. I haven’t really seen her around much.” An understatement. He hadn’t seen her even once since the day Lucius was found guilty.

Albeit seemingly being on different sides of the war, Harry had always held a grudging respect for Narcissa Malfoy. She wasn’t one to crack easily, and even after all she’d been through, she still sounded like the most amazing mother. She protected those she loved with a fervour—sort of like her son. Very much like her son.

Plus, past mistakes aside, Narcissa Malfoy reminded Harry of what he imagined his mother might have been like, had Lily Potter been given the chance to raise a son of her own.

Draco’s lips twitched downwards into a frown, that cautious, soft smile gone. “She’s…doing better, I suppose. Still not quite good, but better, nonetheless.”

Harry gave a sympathetic frown. “That’s the best we can hope for, though, isn’t it? To get better, however long it may take. All of us.”

Draco watched him silently, a pensive look in his eye. But then he nodded, and a soft smile overtook his face yet again. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”

There it was again, that completely baffling look, the sort that made the Slytherin’s eyes glint and glimmer like silver flames. Not in the abrasive way they always had at Hogwarts when Draco had sneered and insulted Harry and his friends in favour of his father’s corrupt ideology—and yet it was even more intense than those glares and scowls and grimaces ever had been.

God, no human being should have such extraordinary eyes, it was downright unnatural—

“ _Fuck_!”

Harry whirled around as a crash sounded from the living room, promptly followed by a string of curses much like the ones Draco had been muttering earlier—only the voice muttering them now was a lot higher and feminine.

Nothing could have prepared Harry when the raven-haired head of one Pansy Parkinson came tumbling out of his fireplace, features warped in indignation as she dusted off her skin-tight, very short ruby dress, adjusting her black leather jacket and kicking the dust off her matching pair of platform boots.

“Pansy?” Draco said beside him, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

The former Slytherin’s head snapped up, sending strands of her black bob tumbling into her face, which she promptly flicked away, a small scowl having already overtaken her face, much like the seemingly permanent one she’d always worn in Hogwarts—at least whenever Harry had the misfortune to cross her path.

But then her dark, kohl-lined eyes landed on Harry and Draco, and her eyebrows shot up so high they disappeared under her dark bangs, Draco’s question forgotten.

Draco, who, Harry realized belatedly, not only stood just the slightest bit too close, but was also still wrapped in a pale pink apron covered in chocolate stains.

The Slytherin seemed to have come to the same realisation, for his grey eyes briefly widened. And although Draco was quick to settle them back into that familiar Malfoy-sneer, folding his arms tightly across his chest in a half-hearted attempt to hide either the chocolate stains, or the pink apron, or perhaps even both, Harry could have sworn his usually so pallid skin had reddened a shade or two.

There was a beat of silence. Then, Pansy grinned.

“Draco, darling!” said the Slytherin, tone sickly sweet as she swept through Harry’s living room, sparing not a single glance at her surroundings, her focus instead entirely on the two of them. There was a twinkle there, a glint of something Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint—and, honestly, judging by the mischievous smirk dancing across the Slytherin’s ruby-red lips, likely didn’t want to either. “I see you’ve been stress-baking again. You really should acquire a new hobby—this one’ll make you fat. And what ever would you do without your only redeeming quality?”

Harry felt it should be said that Draco, although evidently still shocked, recovered remarkably fast, as though Slytherins falling out of your chimney out of the blue was a completely normal thing. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he drawled, and his tone reminded Harry so much of Hogwarts-Draco he had to do a double-take—only to find the blond grinning from ear to ear. “I would look perfect even if I were as big as a house. Besides, my dear—fast metabolism.”

Pansy snorted, and Harry found his eyes promptly shooting back to her, so shocked by the uncharacteristically un-pureblood sound he could only gape. Sure, he’d heard Draco snort before, but that was _Draco_. This was still Pansy Parkinson, the girl who’d have sold him out to Voldemort if given her way.

“Oh, do shut up,” she said, still grinning. The smile, which showcased two rows of perfectly straight white teeth, for some reason reminded Harry of a beast baring its teeth. It made her look slightly deranged—but then again, Harry had always thought her slightly deranged, no matter what expression she wore. “My tolerance for idiocy is only so high on a normal day, and after spending all of yesterday making sure your mum didn’t Apparate after you with one of the kitchen knives in hand, it’s quite a considerable amount lower.”

“How humanitarian of you,” Draco replied with a chuckle. “Positively Hufflepuff.”

Parkinson made a sound halfway between a gag and a scoff. “One more word, Malfoy, and I’ll go after you with a kitchen knife myself.”

Draco gave a mock-pout. “But then all your hard work yesterday will have been for naught.”

“I’m more than glad to risk that if it means shutting that pretty mouth of yours up for once.”

Harry had known Slytherins were masters of verbal jousts, but his head was beginning to spin just keeping up with the two of them, eyes whizzing from one Slytherin to the other and back. “Okay, what is happening here.”

At that, two pairs of eyes, one grey, one onyx-black, zoomed to look at him.

Pansy lifted a perfect eyebrow and crossed her arms across her chest, jewellery jangling. “I know you’re painfully Gryffindor, Potter, but even you must be intelligent enough to recognize two people conversing.”

He wasn’t even irritated by the heavy dose of sarcasm in her tone. God, being with Draco all the time really was affecting him. “Yes, _Parkinson_ , I can see that. But why are you doing it in my kitchen?”

Draco huffed beside him, and Harry thought it might have been a chuckle. But before he could look and make sure, Pansy quipped, “ _Your_ kitchen? I thought you said the flat’s as much Draco’s as it is yours. Or did Draco just dream that up?”

Harry blinked, surprised Draco would tell Pansy such a thing. Not that it was personal or anything, but it certainly called into question what other things Draco had told her. Knowing Harry’s luck, Parkinson likely knew all about every last idiotic, fickle thing Harry had said that night outside the pub and would make it her personal mission to murder Harry in his sleep for it. Maybe, if she was feeling particularly Slytherin, and Harry had a feeling that was pretty much her everyday state of being, she’d use poison so it would look like Yaxley had done it.

But then Draco made a muffled sound at his side, and Harry focused his attention back on the blond, who was…bloody hell, was he _blushing_?

“Anyway,” said Pansy then, and when Harry turned back to her, her grin had widened. “He certainly wasn’t exaggerating the state of your flat. Salazar’s balls, Potter, I could take off my jacket and _blend in with your bloody walls_ , that’s how red this apartment is. It’s wrong, you hear me? _Wrong_.” She shuddered, and whether it was simply for emphasis, because god knows Slytherins always had to be melodramatic, or due to genuine bone-deep revulsion, Harry couldn’t tell.

But then all of a sudden she perked up again, eyes bright as they focused on something behind Harry, disgust gone in the blink of an eye as though it had never existed in the first place. “Ooh, is that chocolate? _Please_ tell me that’s chocolate,” she said, and more or less shoved Harry out of the way, steering towards the bowl of cake batter still sitting innocently on the counter.

Draco scowled, any hints of a hypothetical blush gone, thankfully. “Yes. Not that you deserve it, you meddlesome hag.”

But Pansy ignored him, instead cheerily poking a finger into the chocolate batter (again, ignoring Draco’s protests), scooping out a big heap of batter and shoving it into her mouth with a satisfied smack of the lips. Her eyes widened with joy. “Forget what I said earlier, Draco, dear—I’m so, _so_ glad you bake when you’re stressed. Don’t _ever_ go and find yourself a different hobby.”

Draco grumbled something under his breath, but one look at the blond and Harry was once again surprised to find such obvious affection shining bright in those silver eyes, lighting up his whole face, softening its usually sharp and angular edges into something far more gentle.

It was only when Parkinson gave a soft but distinct cough that Harry realized with a pang of horror that he’d been staring—again. Merlin, he really needed to get himself under control, and soon. This was getting ridiculous. Because, hate admitting it as he might, Harry knew Draco had been right with his earlier assessment concerning Harry’s gift for subtlety; it was practically non-existant. He was almost scared to meet Parkinson’s eyes, fully expecting everything from disgust to anger.

But when he did, there was neither anger, nor disgust on her face, and instead a smug sort of amusement that mentally shocked him into next week.

“Not that I didn’t immensely enjoy seeing you again, Potter,” she said, her tone back to the sing-song lightness it had held before, “but I have something I need to discuss with Draco here. So, if you’d excuse us for a moment. I’ll make it quick, so you can have him back in no time.”

Harry was still immensely confused—which, honestly, seemed to be _his_ everyday state of being these days—so he nodded simply. “Uh, sure.” When neither of the Slytherins made any move to leave, Parkinson staring at him expectantly, that bloody smirk of hers still wide, he blinked and said awkwardly, “Oh. You mean in here. Alone. Err, sure thing, I’ll just…get going then. Uhm…bye?”

Pansy gave him her most deranged-looking smile yet. “You’re such a doll, I can see why Draco likes you.” Beside her, Draco appeared to choke on air. But Pansy was already continuing brightly, oblivious to her friend’s crisis, “We’re going out shopping on the weekend, by the way—me, Draco, Blaise, maybe a few others. Or, we’d planned to, until Draco here got himself joined at the hip with you. He can’t leave you alone, apparently, but if you were there as well…” She shrugged. “Think about it, Potter—unless that’s too much Slytherin for you to handle.” The challenge in her tone was evident, which Harry was sure was intentional.

Slytherins—even when you knew they were playing mind games, you simply couldn’t help but play right into their cards.

Harry nodded uncertainly, not knowing how else to react without running the risk of being torn to pieces by those sharp white teeth of Parkinson’s, both figuratively and not. “Err, thanks. I’ll…think about it.”

“Perfect,” said Pansy, smiling. “Now get out.”

And—for let it be known that, contrary to public opinion, Harry Potter did still possess the most basic of self-preservation instincts—he heeded the Slytherin’s command and, careful not to so much as glance back over at Draco, with his stupid hair and stupid silver eyes, turned on his heel and fled.

* * *

Draco pointedly did not stare after Harry as he left. (Rather quickly, too; Draco hadn’t expected him to be _that_ intimidated by Pansy. Okay, who was he kidding, of course he’d be. After all, who wasn’t?) Except…maybe he did stare, just a little bit. But, honestly, who could blame him?

Which Pansy, that she-devil, naturally commented on with a bright, “Salazar, Draco, you are _so_ smitten, it’s honestly ridiculous.”

Draco had known from the moment he’d stopped considering their relationship an alliance and instead let it turn into an actual _friendship_ that he’d likely regret it later. And although Pansy and Blaise had helped him through some of the most difficult parts of his life and he was infinitely glad to have them at his side, Draco couldn’t stop thinking that _later_ had finally arrived.

Much like Blaise, Pansy appeared to be of the opinion she had every right to stick that pert little nose of hers into Draco’s personal business. Her disgusting grin said it all.

“No, really,” she said when he huffed indignantly. “You’re lucky Potter’s so bloody oblivious when it comes to love, otherwise you’d be done for. Merlin, Draco, I’ve been here for five minutes and the sheer amount of _feelings_ in the air is already enough to make me want to vomit.”

Draco fixed her with his best imitation of his father’s glower (the only thing Lucius had taught him that ever came in handy) and deadpanned, “Well, do try to do it into the sink, please. These dragonhide boots are new.”

But Pansy was as much a Slytherin as he was, and, after years and years of friendship, had become irritatingly immune to Draco’s remarks, so she simply rolled her long-lashed eyes. “I’m serious, Draco. I know Potter’s the most oblivious being in this world and the next, but you can’t bank on that forever. Sooner or later, he’s going to notice something, or, worse still, someone else might.” Her smirk twisted higher. “ _However_ , now that I’ve actually seen you two together, I think it’s safe to say the situation isn’t nearly as hopeless as I’d feared. If you were to just tell him…”

Immediately, a scowl overtook Draco’s face. “Tell him what, Pansy? I only just managed to befriend the man literally ten minutes ago, and now you want me to tell him we’re apparently soulmates? How well do you think that’d go over?”

Pansy frowned, but her tone remained doggedly optimistic. “But that’s great! Honestly, I didn’t even think you two would manage _that_ —and here you’ve gone and done it in half a week. Good on you. Who knows, maybe in a week or two, you’ll be holding hands. Baby steps, darling.”

Baby steps. Ha. If only.

Draco turned to his bowl of chocolate batter, realizing promptly he still had no idea how to use Harry’s bizarre muggle appliances, then deciding to hell with it all, he’d just do it with magic. So much for his big gesture. Draco had only ventured into the kitchen in the first place because of—goddamn, when had his life turned into a such fucking soap opera— _Potter,_ of course. Potter, with his stupid inability to stay still, even in sleep, and his stupid love for grilled cheese sandwiches and his stupid messy, adorable bedhead.

Fuck, Pansy was right; he was so smitten, it was downright repulsive.

His silence and sour mien must have mirrored his thoughts, for Pansy shot him a smug grin. “You’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other better. Besides, if worse comes to worse, Blaise and I will just throw you at each other when we go shopping on Saturday, and then run away really fast.”

Draco groaned. “I thought you were kidding! You’re not seriously considering having Potter accompany us? A group that consists of exclusively Slytherins? Who he hated all through school?”

Pansy simply reached over his shoulder for another fingerful of batter. “Oh, it’ll be fine. By then, the two of you will be thick as thieves. Besides, you can’t deny a little shopping will do wonders for the poor bloke. Maybe a makeover, too, if I’m feeling generous. He’s handsome enough, but who can tell under that rat’s nest?”

Draco huffed and flicked his wand at the cake batter, magically adding the eggs, like he should have done from the beginning. “It’s not that bad,” he muttered under his breath.

Naturally—because when had things ever been even remotely easy for Draco—Pansy heard. At that point, her smile was so wide it was a wonder her whole face didn’t collapse under the strain.

“Salazar, Pans,” Draco grumbled, and gave his wand another particularly forceful flick, adding the remaining cocoa. “Enough with the smiles. You really are positively Hufflepuff today.”

But not even that managed to dim her grin, and she blew him a little kiss before filling her mouth with another scoop of cake batter. “For you, my dear, always.”


	10. protector of Gryffindors and lover of all things muggle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently suffering from a very severe case of writer's block, but I have a week off now so I hope by next Sunday everything'll be back to normal again.  
> Anywho, enjoy chapter 10!

Thursday, it seemed, Harry’s flat was the most popular destination in London.

First Pansy Parkinson, who, true to her word, left again after a brief chat with Draco that had left the blond Slytherin wearing a disgruntled scowl overtop of his batter-spattered clothes. Harry had no idea what the hell Parkinson had said to him to ruffle him so but decided it was likely most sensible to give Draco some space after that. So Harry had simply plucked a book from his shelf labelled “Quidditch Icons of the Past Century” (the last present Ginny had given him before their breakup) and plopped down on his usual armchair across from where Draco sat in his own, a thick, leatherbound book perched on the Slytherin’s pointy knees, and the two of them had read their respective books in amicable silence.

It was barely an hour later that Harry’s Floo spat out his next handful of guests.

He’d just helped himself to a piece of Draco’s chocolate cake—which, it should be stressed, was absolutely delicious, despite the fact that most of it had ended up in Harry’s sink—when a crash sounded and Hermione tumbled into sight, bushy hair even more of a mess than usual. Draco gave a start, nearly dropping his book.

Before Hermione could do much other than smile warmly at Harry and open her mouth, Ron staggered into view behind her, all the while coughing and sneezing violently. Hermione pursed her lips as she regarded her fiancé, and Harry was sure she was going to start scolding him yet again to _keep his bloody mouth closed_ when using the Floo.

However, before she had the chance, Lavender appeared, golden-brown hair braided back to reveal the faint but undeniable scars running down the left side of her face, only barely missing her eye, followed by Parvati, who was busy brushing the cinders out of her own hip-length sheet of black hair.

But before Harry could say anything or even raise a hand in greeting, the fifth and last of his newest guests emerged from the Floo.

Ginny resolutely did not look at him as she slipped in between Parvati and Lavender, brown eyes all the while fixed resolutely on the windows across the room. It was the first time, Harry realized, that she’d been in his apartment. Since their breakup almost directly after the war, at which point he hadn’t yet acquired the flat, she’d always had Quidditch practice or previous commitments or simply couldn’t make it whenever Ron and Hermione and the others had come over. Harry didn’t take offense—he couldn’t exactly see himself sitting casually in Ginny’s apartment either, laughing and talking as though everything was as it once had been—but it shocked him more than it probably should to see her here now.

“Hiya Harry,” said Parvati cheerily, and Harry realized he’d been staring rather mystified at where Ginny still stood awkwardly, half-hidden behind Lavender and Parvati.

Harry forced himself to look away, instead smiling over at Parvati. “Hey, Parvati. Lav, Ron, Mione. Ginny.” He didn’t sound weird or surprised or alarmed in any way. He really didn’t. “What’re you all doing here?”

“I told you we’d come visit soon,” answered Hermione. “We would have come sooner, but I thought you might be asleep for a while. You look a lot better.”

Harry smiled. “I am. I saw your grilled cheese sandwiches, by the way, Mione. They were great, thanks a lot.”

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Sandwiches? As in plural?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment a thud sounded, and all eyes shifted to where Draco still sat in his armchair, his thick book having fallen to the floor with a loud thump. The Slytherin very determinedly did not look up at them as he bent down to snatch up the book, a miniature little scowl with no real edge to it playing across his lips. But it was the faint smudge of red in his cheeks that caught Harry’s attention, and he furrowed his brow in confusion.

Draco ignored them all, as though none of them, not even Harry, were there, instead gripping his book so hard his knuckles went completely white, and after a few seconds everyone looked away again, evidently confused. All except Hermione, Harry noted, who wore an especially pensive look as she regarded the Slytherin.

“Right then. _Harry_ ,” said Ron, and Harry was glad, if slightly confused, to see the excited twinkle in his best friend’s eyes. “You won’t believe what just happened over at the office. There was a sighting of Yaxley over in Knockturn Alley!”

Harry (and Draco, he noted out of the corner of his eye) perked up at that. “Really? A sighting? In Knockturn?”

Ron nodded enthusiastically. “Robards dispatched a bunch of Aurors to go after him, but I’d already promised Hermione we’d come over, so I couldn’t join. But there’s no way Yaxley will escape with a dozen Aurors on his tail. Maybe this’ll all be over in a few minutes and everything can finally go back to normal!”

Harry was too stunned to reply. Ron’s words echoed in his mind. This could all be over in few minutes. If they caught Yaxley now and locked him up in Azkaban again, everything would go back to normal. Harry would be able to go outside again, would be able to go to work, would be able to hang out with his friends without them having to all pile into his apartment.

He should be overjoyed. Ecstatic, even. But, for some reason, he instead found himself glancing surreptitiously over at Draco, who now sat as rigid in his armchair as he had that first day, grey eyes cool and unreadable as he looked almost determinedly not at Harry.

“That’s great,” Harry said, and he hoped he sounded as enthusiastic as he ought to. Ron, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice his lack of fervour, already continuing on about how boring the office was without Harry there and how his temporary partner Gerhard was an annoying, self-important twat and how _bloody hard_ the work was without Harry’s added help. But Harry hardly listened. He felt someone’s gaze on him and turned, only to find Hermione watching him, apparently not listening to her fiancé either, that same thoughtful look back in her eyes.

“Oh, and guess what, Harry!” exclaimed Lavender, and Harry gave a start, only to look up to find Lavender’s brown eyes glowing. “Remember that role I flew to Dublin to audition for a few weeks back?”

Harry racked his brain for any mention of a trip to Dublin, only to come up empty. He grimaced helplessly, glancing over at Ron for help, who in turn shrugged his shoulders in a similarly knowledgeable manner.

“ _You know_ , Harry, the vampire one? Set in the 1800s? With that Veela Ron thought was oh so pretty?” Hermione supplied, looking rather exasperated as she did. Her glare focused first on her fiancé, then Harry, a reproving little frown creasing her face, and she didn’t need to utter a single word to voice her plainly obvious thoughts: ‘Honestly, do either of you _ever_ pay attention?’

“Oh yes,” Harry said, the reply half-hearted even to his own ears. “That one. Right.”

From across the carpet, Draco rolled his eyes, apparently having given up on his whole ‘I’m ignoring you, feel ignored’ routine. Harry was glad he had, even if that meant having to put up with a blond, Slytherin, slightly tetchier Hermione 2.0. Harry almost smiled—he doubted Draco would much appreciate the comparison, but it was hardly Harry’s fault that it was just so incredibly accurate, was it now?

“Anyway, I got it!” Lavender cried, effectively wrenching Harry from his deliberations, her face split into a grin so large and brilliant it nearly completely concealed her scars. Harry felt immediately worse for having forgotten about Dublin; Lavender had almost given up on her lifelong dream of being an actress due to those scars, only to say to hell with it and pursue the profession anyway. Now she was getting role after role, and Harry couldn’t even be bothered enough to remember her auditions. “The best part is it’ll premier here in London, so I’ll be here for at least a few weeks, maybe even longer! Isn’t that fantastic? And the other cast members are just so kind and talented. Merlin, I can’t believe this is really my life.”

And goddamn if Harry couldn’t sympathize with that sentiment.

“Well, congratulations, Lav,” Harry said, smiling over at her. “You’ve earned it.”

Lavender’s smile widened even further, and Harry was glad at least one of his friends was loving their life right now. It made the confusing muddle that was _his_ current life—being chased by an escaped Death Eater, forced to stay in his flat for God knows how long, not to mention having to deal with this newest revelation of whatever the fuck it was that he found himself wrangling every time he glanced over at a certain silver-blond Slytherin—at least a tad more bearable.

Parvati draped an arm over Lavender’s shoulder. “She has, hasn’t she? Yet another famous celebrity in our friend group. Maybe I should have pursued playing the harpsichord after all, so we could all be famous together. Mum used to say all the time I was gifted.”

“Ah, yes,” muttered Lavender sarcastically, although she was still grinning. “Because harpsichord players always make for the coolest celebrities.”

Harry chuckled. “Hogwarts Professor not showy enough for you, Parvati?”

Parvati pulled a grimace, shooting a glare first at Lavender, then Harry. Everyone laughed, including, Harry noted, Draco (why he noticed he really couldn’t say, it wasn’t like he was staring at the man or anything). Although the Slytherin was clearly trying to hide his smile, his lips curled up at the sides, nonetheless. It was rather endearing, actually. In a very normal, non-attractive sort of way.

“Oh, by the way, Harry, speaking of wannabe Hogwarts Professors,” Parvati said then. “Nic told me you guys met at the pub the other day. I gave him your Floo, I hope you don’t mind. He said he might call you soon. Honestly, I think he rather likes you.”

The next time Harry glanced back over at Draco, the blond was no longer smiling.

“He’s quite nice, don’t you think, Harry?” Parvati was already continuing, oblivious to where Harry’s attention lay. “And rather handsome, too. Personally, I couldn’t like him as anything more than a friend, even without the obvious issue of gender. But Nic really seemed to like you a lot. He mentioned you might meet up at the pub sometime soon…?”

“Err…” Harry shifted uncomfortably in his armchair, face already warming. Being set up by his friend was awkward and weird enough as it was. But being set up by his friend in the company of not only his ex-girlfriend, but also ex-rival/enemy-turned-friend (that’s what they were, right?)—that was just too much.

Thankfully, Hermione seemed to notice his unease, for she said in that brisk, light tone she specially reserved for the many occasions Ron or Harry found themselves in a tight corner and needed bailing out, “Say, Harry, did you bake something? It smells delicious in here.”

Immediately, Ron perked up, sniffing in the air like a bloodhound. When it came to food, Harry reasoned, comparing Ron to a bloodhound really was quite fitting. “Mione’s right,” the redhead said. His eyes went wider when he spied the half-eaten piece of cake still sitting on the coffee table at Harry’s right. “Oi, is that chocolate cake?”

Harry tried to smile, he really did. It wasn’t his fault all he wanted to do at that moment was hide in between the folds of his armchair and remain hidden there for the next hundred or so years—and the smile turned out accordingly. “Err, it wasn’t me who did the baking. Draco did.”

At that, everyone but Ron, who was busy eyeing the chocolate cake, raised an eyebrow in visible surprise. Had Harry not seen Draco baking with his own two eyes, he’d likely be similarly baffled. At the memory of the usually so immaculate Slytherin in his pink baking apron, chocolate covering nearly every free patch of skin as he cursed a muggle hand mixer, the corners of Harry’s mouth inadvertently lifted. Now that was an image he’d never forget.

“You…bake?” Parvati said carefully, eyeing Draco. However, Harry was glad to see, it wasn’t hatred or anger or disgust in her eyes, but sheer surprise.

Draco scowled, and Harry nearly opened his mouth to admonish the blond. However, he promptly stopped himself. Had Harry gone through with it, that was something neither Draco nor his friends would likely ever let him live down. And he’d survived enough awkwardness for one day, thank you very much.

Fortunately, Draco simply gritted his teeth and nodded politely, if rather curtly. “I do.”

“Helps him work off stress,” Harry added helpfully…and immediately cursed himself as six pairs of eyes shifted to him, six pairs of eyebrows raised high.

So much for no more awkwardness.

“Okay then,” said Hermione slowly, and, _Merlin,_ Harry really needed to get better at reading people’s expressions, how had he survived a bloody war when he couldn’t even figure out what his best friend was thinking? “That’s…a useful hobby to have.”

But Draco surprised everyone, Harry included, when he replied, “I agree. Especially living here, since Potter obviously has no idea how to obtain a decent meal if it’s not delivered directly to his doorstep by a muggle food delivery service—which, mind you, I hardly think should be described as a ‘decent’ meal.”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite shake his smile. “Oh, sod off, you’re just being melodramatic—as always. I bet you’d love Thai, if you’d just try it instead of immediately turning your pureblood nose up at it because it’s muggle.”

“I have no issue with it being muggle, Potter,” Draco replied, forgetting for a moment his rigid posture and pureblood manners and instead fixing Harry with a little scowl. “I have _an issue_ with the fact that it looks like _animal feed_. And not even the pricey type.”

Harry was full-out grinning now. “Oh, and you’re the expert on animal food, are you?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact. My family owned a horde of _peacocks_ , in case you’ve forgotten. That a good enough justification for you?”

“Oh my god, I forgot all about that. I can’t believe you honestly had a _flock of peacocks_ at home. And albino ones, too. Honestly, be any more of a pretentious toff, will you?”

There was stunned silence for a moment, and Harry only realized then that all his friends were still there, watching their little exchange with wide-open mouths and incredulous eyes.

But then, slowly, gradually, a smirk twisted its way across Draco’s mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Ron’s mouth drop straight open, but Harry’s attention was focused elsewhere; mainly, on the way Draco’s eyes twinkled as he drawled, “Better than a hopelessly inept Gryffindork who can’t even make an apple pie without nearly burning down his flat.”

Fuck, Harry _knew_ he shouldn’t have told Draco about that. Leave it to a Slytherin to blackmail you with something you confessed in a Butterbeer-induced sugar haze on the night you both almost got murdered by a wrathful, deranged Death Eater.

“I told you, that was _one_ _time_! Besides, it wasn’t even my fault, really. I just happened to get side-tracked and forgot I had it in the oven. Happens to everyone.”

But Draco’s smirk only grew. “Harry Potter getting side-tracked—what a novel concept.”

Harry groaned. “You’re such a git.”

“Why, Potter, I never knew you had such a way with words.” The Slytherin lifted his hand to his chest. “I’m touched. Also, right back at you.”

Harry snorted.

Now, Harry knew perfectly well that him becoming friends with his long-time rival and even temporary enemy was a tad far-fetched. He doubted the Harry from two weeks ago would have believed it could ever happen. Draco and he had hated each other for years and never missed an opportunity to make that obvious. So, Harry’s friends being somewhat… _surprised_ to see the two of them actually getting along for once wasn’t unexpected.

It was, however, extremely uncomfortable to witness.

No one spoke for a long moment. Ron was gaping unabashedly, as was Parvati, if in a slightly less shameless manner. Lavender just looked stunned, and Hermione had the oddest expression on her face, something halfway between shock and very Hermione-esque rumination.

Then there was Ginny.

Ginny, who had stayed perfectly silent and uncomfortable throughout the entire visit so far. Ginny, who had kept her gaze locked firmly on either the floor or the windows, as long as it was nowhere near Harry.

Ginny, who was currently glaring at Draco as though he were a piece of dogshit clinging to her favourite pair of heels.

“Well then,” Hermione said at last, evidently trying hard to wrangle her shock, for which Harry was eternally grateful. “It’s fantastic to see you two getting along so well. Honestly, I had my doubts whether you’d be able to work things out. But it seems I needn’t have worried.”

“What can I say,” Harry said, hoping to lighten the mood. “He may be a giant arsehole, but at least he can bake.”

It did not lighten the mood. If anything, Ginny’s gaze only cooled further.

“Yes, because that’s essentially my only function,” Draco drawled, and Harry was so thankful he didn’t glower back at Ginny, although there was no way the Slytherin had missed the intensity of her narrow-eyed gaze. “Draco Malfoy, the baking slave who lives to serve Gryffindors.”

Ron snorted.

Harry wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or alarmed. When the redhead noticed everyone looking at him, Ron simply shrugged, as though him laughing non-derisively at something Draco Malfoy said was the most normal thing in the world. “What? Come on, that was funny, you’ve got to admit.”

“Yeah,” Lavender agreed slowly. “Much better than ‘Draco Malfoy, the arrogant pureblood bastard that hates all Gryffindors’, that’s for sure.”

Another pulse of silence.

And then Draco chuckled. “Yes, I imagine it does. Sorry for that, by the way.”

Harry did a quick survey of the room; both Lavender and Hermione were studying Draco with what might be described as wary approval, and although both still looked suspicious, the previous distaste in their eyes was long-gone. Parvati simply seemed curious, while Ron had both eyebrows raised high as he regarded the blond, evidently unsure what to think. And Ginny…well. Harry really didn’t know what Draco had said or done in the past few minutes to offend her so, but then again, even Harry had to admit he could, at times, be a tad slow when it came to unspoken signals.

Hermione opened her mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more to reply, “Thank you, Malfoy. I—we appreciate you saying that.”

As if Draco hadn’t surprised everyone enough already, he simply shrugged in response, although Harry could tell by the stiff set of his shoulders and ever-so-faintly flushed cheeks that the Slytherin was a lot more uncomfortable than he was letting on. “It…needed to be said. I, uhm, realise now I might not have been very…courteous towards you during our time together at Hogwarts.”

Another snort from Ron. Harry had already twisted in his seat, mouth curved into a frown, ready to tell his best friend off, because clearly Draco was trying to make an effort here, and laughing at him was certainly not going to prompt any further words of regret.

But there was no need, for Draco simply sighed and said, “Okay, yes, Weasley, you made your point. I was awful to you—there, I admit it. Granted, you were equally awful to me and _my_ friends, and Granger even _broke my nose_ that one time, not to mention how Harry—” Draco winced when he promptly found himself the target of five pairs of raised eyebrows. Well, four, seeing as Ginny was still too busy glaring. “Fine. Back to the apology. I shouldn’t have said most of the things I said, shouldn’t have acted the way I acted. And I realise it’s not much of an excuse, but most of the nonsense I did I’d either picked up from or seen done by my father. Regardless of how misplaced that trust might have been, he was my role model, and I didn’t lose much sleep over whether or not his ideals were wrong. So, yes, I’m sorry. To all of you. For…everything.”

Harry didn’t even care that he was staring at Draco again, not when everyone else was as well. Besides, it warmed something in Harry’s chest to see the prideful Slytherin so open for once, open and…vulnerable. For him to apologize and admit he’d been in the wrong and genuinely mean every word of it.

How was it Harry had gotten to know Draco better over this past week—to the point that it felt like they’d been friends for decades—than he had during six full years of living in the same castle and seeing each other every day?

But, no—he knew why. This vulnerable, slightly self-conscious person sitting on the armchair across from Harry’s, one foot tucked under the other leg, book sprawled open across his lap—this was the real Draco. The one Harry assumed the Slytherin had either hidden away during Hogwarts for the sake of saving face, or simply hadn’t discovered yet himself. But one thing Harry knew for certain, and that was that the old Draco Malfoy, the one that had made Harry’s life a living hell, the one that had called Hermione a mudblood—he had left the picture right alongside Lucius Malfoy as the latter was carted off to Azkaban.

Harry much preferred this one anyway.

“That’s very considerate of you, Ma-…Draco.” Although evidently still surprised, Hermione’s words were warm and heartfelt.

The others nodded, even Ron. He looked the most confused out of everyone, but still his tone was sincere, if dazed, as he said, “Bloody hell, never thought I’d be saying this, but you really seem like you’ve changed a lot, Malfoy. And in a good way, too. Good on you. I think I’m starting to see why Harry hasn’t hexed you to Scotland and back yet.”

Draco gave a huff halfway between a chuckle and a breath of evident relief, and Harry was glad to see the blond’s shoulders lose some of their tension. “The emphasis, Weasley, being _yet_. Give it another two or three days and you might just get your wish after all.”

Harry grinned. “Aww, come on, I would _never_ —I’m far too fond of you now.”

“Salazar help me.”

And this time it wasn’t Harry alone who chuckled and smiled, and that fact made Harry burst with both joy and pride for Draco at how far he’d come.

“Anyway, enough talk,” said Ron then, finally moving away from where he, Hermione, Parvati, Lavender and Ginny still stood clustered by the fireplace, attention fixed on the kitchen. “I want some of that cake.”

The others followed, even Ginny, although she very pointedly did not look anywhere near Harry as she passed him, with Hermione bringing up the rear, smiling even through her exasperated sigh. When she walked by Draco, she paused and offered him a tentative smile—a smile that, although a bit more cautiously, the Slytherin returned.

Yes, Harry could say with full confidence. This Draco—the _real_ Draco—he could get used to.

* * *

Draco had thought he’d hate a gathering of loud, obnoxiously chatty Gryffindors much more than he actually found himself doing. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or alarmed by that fact.

Then again, he’d just made a painfully sincere apology to said pack of loud, obnoxiously chatty Gryffindors, so his sanity was bound to be called into question anyway.

Draco sat in what he’d come to think of as his armchair, watching the Gryffindors chat, Harry nodding and gesticulating enthusiastically with his hands while Granger in turn looked at him, dubious, Brown and Patil all the while laughing, and Weasley snorting into what Draco was rather certain must be the redhead’s fifth or sixth piece of cake. Oddly, Draco didn’t mind. At least his baking was being appreciated for once; at home, his mother would always smile at Draco’s newest, stress-borne creation, congratulate him on a job well don, and then covertly have some house elf Apparate it to a family friend of sorts. Draco didn’t take offense—he usually didn’t bake to eat anyway. Plus, although he liked claiming otherwise whenever Pansy was around, one didn’t maintain a figure like his by eating cake all day every day.

But not all the Gryffindors were merrily conversing by the fireplace. The Girl-Weasel hadn’t stopped glowering at him darkly since his friendly little bickering with Harry. And although some part of Draco preened at the notion of Harry’s ex-girlfriend being jealous due to something _he’d_ done, the sane part of him was noticeably more perturbed by the sullen looks she kept shooting him.

She hadn’t spoken a word to Harry since her arrival, hadn’t even looked at him more than was strictly necessary. Even now she sat a few feet away from the tight cluster of cheerfully conversing Gryffindors, and after a few attempts at conversation, even they seemed to have drawn a blank on how to include the Girl-Weasel in their exchanges.

But the fact that she now sat farther away from Harry meant she sat nearer to Draco. It made clandestinely watching Harry much more difficult.

When her constant glaring became too irritating, to the point Draco feared he might accidentally shout at her and thus effectively negate whatever small progress he’d made today, he fixed her with his coldest look and said, quiet enough that Harry and his friends wouldn’t hear but with a sufficient amount of bite, “Yes, Ginevra? Can I help you?”

The female Weasel scowled, eyes narrowing dangerously.

When she didn’t reply, however, Draco’s lips curled into the customary Malfoy-sneer. “Out with it; if you have a problem with me, then, please, by all means, do us both a favour and get it over with. But I must warn you, I haven’t got all day.”

Draco had to hand it to the youngest Weasley—she could be quite an intimidating sight when she wanted to be. A spitfire, much like his mother and Pansy. Honestly, Draco wouldn’t be surprised if that was one of the main reasons Harry had gotten together with her in the first place; the Chosen One truly did seem to be unnaturally drawn to the dangerous.

“That was a nice speech you made,” she finally said, and at least she was sensible enough to keep her voice down as well. “Was any of it true? Or was it all one big load of bullshit?”

Draco lifted his eyebrows. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she retorted. “Maybe because you hated us all through Hogwarts? Maybe because you are and always have been a bully? And maybe, just maybe, because you were a _Death Eater_?”

Draco swallowed down the surge of anger the words brought on, instead quirking his mouth at her. “Why, Ginevra, that’s all in the past. Didn’t you get the memo? I’m a new person now—the new and improved Draco Malfoy, protector of Gryffindors and lover of all things muggle.”

The She-Weasel scowled. “ _That_ I know is bullshit.”

Draco put a hand on his heart in mock-offense and tutted, which only made the Weasley all the more livid. “Such little faith. But it’s true. Did you know I baked that cake your brother’s currently busy wolfing down with a muggle apparatus? A hand mixer, if I remember correctly.” He cocked his head to the side. “They’re rather dangerous, though. I was lucky Harry was there to help me, otherwise the bloody thing might’ve taken my hand off.”

The way the Girl-Weasley’s face flushed, so dark it very nearly matched the red of her hair, made it impossibly hard not to grin. Ooh, Draco knew he should stop. Provoking his soulmate’s ex-girlfriend was only going to end in one great big mess, one he’d likely regret later.

But things were just getting fun.

“That’s…kind of him,” she ground out, all the while looking at Draco with such heated, barely suppressed loathing that not smirking was becoming excruciating.

Instead, however, Draco nodded earnestly. “Oh, yes, it was. Alas, that’s his hero-complex shining through. Just can’t help it, the poor bloke. But since I’ll likely be staying here for quite some time, I suppose I’ll have to come to terms with it. Might as well do so sooner rather than later.”

The Girl-Weasel’s jaw was clenched hard. She looked at him long and hard, all the while silent, and Draco wondered whether he’d done it, whether he’d pushed her so far she’d actually yell at him now in front of her friends.

But then she hissed, “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Malfoy, but don’t expect me to believe even for a second that you’ve _changed_ and are just _so_ apologetic for being a dickhead all through Hogwarts. You’re still the same arrogant, imperious bully you were back then, and nothing, least of all your half-hearted little apologies, is going to change my mind about that. Why Hermione might forgive you I understand, she’s just too forgiving in general, and Ron basically does whatever she says, but Harry should know better, Harry—”

“Ah,” said Draco, nodding sagely. “So _that’s_ what this is all about. The crux of the matter, if you will— _Harry_. Is there something you’d like to say, Ginevra, or shall I try piece together your motives myself?”

Oh, if looks could kill, Draco would be nothing more than a smouldering heap of ashes.

But, still, he continued. Knowing when to stop had always been a problem for him, ever since childhood. He blamed his parents—well, primarily his mother, but she’d pretty much encompassed the term ‘parents’ for Draco ever since he could remember. And, alright, yes, perhaps he had been a tad spoiled, both materialistically and with attention. However, in situations like these, pushing and prodding until you hit the breaking point was simply such _fun_. Especially when a Weasley was involved, and _especially_ when said Weasley was Harry’s ex-girlfriend.

So, really, the question rather ought to be, how could he _not_?

“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say someone’s _jealous_. Still not over the Saviour, are you? It’s been, what, three years since you broke up? Honestly, I’d say it’s high time you got over it, Weasley, lest you run the risk of becoming, shall we say, obsessed.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Malfoy,” she snarled. “How long were you obsessed with Harry for? Six years? Or have you never stopped?”

Draco immediately bristled, the topic far too close to comfort for his liking. “Redirecting the subject, are we? Frankly, I have no idea why everyone thinks Gryffindors are such ignorant morons—clearly you’re all genius conversationalists.”

“If I’m redirecting the subject, Malfoy, what are _you_ doing, exactly? Avoiding the issue, maybe? Trying to divert my attention so that I’m angry with you and forget I appear to have just hit a nerve?”

Even through his fog of dislike, Draco dimly appreciated the She-Weasel’s cunning. Seems he’d underestimated her in that regard—it would be the first and the last time.

“I’m not sure what incredible secret you think you’ve unearthed,” Draco said, keeping his tone fixedly in a bored drawl, refusing to let any unease or panic show, “but if I were you, I’d concentrate on my own problems and keep my nose out of other people’s business. I can hardly make assumptions for your family, but in mine, we have a specific way of dealing with busybodies, and trust me when I say it’s not pretty.”

“Ooh, reverting to threats,” jeered Weasley, looking more She-Devil than She-Weasel with her fiery red hair and flashing eyes. “Now I’m scared. How entirely unexpected, from a Malfoy.”

“Well, Ginevra,” Draco said in his most cool and level tone and offered her his most toothy smile. “There’s a reason for that.”

And with that he stood, not for the first nor the last time infinitely grateful he’d been taught to hide his true emotions at such a young age. He didn’t glance even once back at the She-Devil, although he could certainly still feel the weight of her glare in between his shoulder blades. Instead, he grabbed his book and strode right across the room, where Harry immediately looked up when he noticed Draco’s arrival. In midst of the churning anger and wildfire-like panic still roaring through Draco’s person, he was pleased by the instantaneous attention.

The other Gryffindors looked up to, and Harry was frowning slightly as he studied Draco. Draco immediately stiffened, alarmed, only to then chide himself for it. There was no way Harry would be able to see through the mask Draco had perfected over the course of most of his life; Harry, the oblivious Gryffindor who likely hadn’t even noticed his ex-girlfriend glowering at Draco as though he were the very bane of her existence. There was simply no way.

Right?

“Something wrong?” Harry asked at last.

Draco blinked, then quickly caught himself again. “No. I’m headed to my room, is all. This much Gryffindor is bound to be contagious. It’s bad enough with you all day—but with six Gryffindors in one room, I don’t think even I’m Slytherin enough to withstand the pull.”

Harry laughed, and the sound instantly calmed Draco’s residual anger. “Quit talking about Gryffindors as though we were the Dark Side of the Force and Slytherin were the Light. If anything, I’d say _you_ ought to be the Dark Side; ruling over the galaxy with an iron fist sounds like more of a Slytherin goal.”

Beside Harry, Granger actually snorted.

Draco looked incredulously between the two. He opened his mouth. But then he shook his head, deciding it was better to give up than make any more of a fool of himself than he already had. “You know what, I’m not even going to ask. Have fun with your bizarre muggle topics. Oh, and Weasley—” The redhead was in the process of shoving about half a piece of cake in his mouth at once, and when he looked up, startled, some crumbs fell out. Draco grimaced. “—do try not to eat the entire cake. That much sugar is bound to make even you sick, and that is one thing I _never_ want to witness.”

There were a few chuckles, and Weasley had the good sense to look at least slightly abashed.

Draco glanced once more at Harry before leaving, because apparently he had about as much self-control as Ronald sodding Weasley. When he did, he was both surprised and delighted to find Harry already staring up at him, though the Gryffindor looked away again, flustered, the moment their eyes met.

Draco said farewell to the Gryffindors and headed for his room, all the while smiling faintly to himself. Perhaps the situation wasn’t quite as dire as he’d initially feared after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I just love Ginny-drama, I can't help myself.


	11. a cure for boredom and various other ailments of the heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear readers! I have a feeling you'll like this chapter...get ready for some teeth-rotting fluff ;)

Harry huffed another particularly long, pitiful sigh.

“Salazar’s balls, Potter,” Draco finally snapped, shutting his book with an especially forceful bang and fixing Harry with a glare. “Will you stop sighing already? I’m trying to read here, and you sitting there vocally feeling sorry for yourself is making that effectively impossible. I know sitting still is hard for you, but, Circe, isn’t there something you could entertain yourself with? Anything? Don’t you have hobbies of some sort?”

Harry sighed again, ignoring the way Draco’s eyes narrowed at the sound. “Of course I have hobbies. But they’re all outside, aren’t they?” He was itching to go flying again, but he doubted Draco would go for it. Christ, Harry had never thought staying inside would be so bloody _boring_.

Draco drew in a long breath through his nose and exhaled again, obviously suppressing the urge to insult Harry further. Harry was surprised; he hadn’t thought Draco capable of such restraint.

“Alright.” The Slytherin’s voice was pleasant and calm, but the set of his jaw betrayed him. “Fine. So you need a hobby. That can be arranged. You’re clearly no avid reader, and I think trying to teach you to cook would be pushing our luck.” Harry opened his mouth to retort that he could cook perfectly well—the Dursleys had made sure of that. But then that would require him actually telling Draco about the Dursleys, and that was one subject he did not want to broach any time soon, thank you very much.

“What about painting? Or drawing?”

Harry grimaced. “Err, maybe not. I’m not very good with that stuff. Dean’s the artist, not me.”

Draco gave a dark laugh. “ _Clearly_. What on earth was I thinking. So, nothing artistic. Nothing culinary. We can’t do any sports, not in here. I doubt you’d be all that good at sewing either, and, for the sake of my eardrums, I’d rather not test your musical abilities.”

The Slytherin paused, frowning to himself, and the crinkle that formed in between his eyebrows was just—Harry stopped himself in the nick of time, before his mind started spouting nonsense once again. Very crinkly, that’s what it was. The crinkle that formed in between Draco’s eyebrows was just very crinkly indeed. Perfect.

“What _are_ you good at?” asked Draco, looking with his pensive frown and…crinkly crinkle as though he really couldn’t for the life of him come up with a single strength of Harry’s.

“Besides killing evil, psychopathic snake-people, you mean?”

“Ha. Yes, besides that.”

Harry considered the question. “Well…I like duelling, I guess. And I play a mean game of Uno.”

Draco stared at him long and hard. “Un—nope. Just no. I don’t even want to know what that is. _Duelling_ , then. Hmm, well, I don’t think duelling in here would be all too wise. Although the idea of destroying a few of these eyesores you call decoration is mighty appealing, I have to live here, as well, so we really shouldn’t wreck the place.”

And suddenly, an idea came to Harry. A very brilliant idea, in his own humble opinion, an idea he really ought to have come up with days ago.

There was a long pause, and Harry stared at Draco and Draco stared at Harry, and then the Slytherin’s eyes widened and he was shaking his head with such vigour it sent another few strands of blond falling into his eyes.

“ _No_ , Potter. Absolutely not.” Whereas he’d usually smooth any loose strands back into place instantly, he didn’t even seem to notice them this time, too busy shaking his head some more. “No, no and _no_. We are not— _for the love of Salazar, stop looking at me like that—_ we are _not_ duelling inside your flat. It’s out of the question.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” A large grin had split Harry’s face, which only made the Slytherin’s eyes narrow…which in turn only made Harry’s grin wider. “You must be as bored as I am; you’ve read that book _at least_ ten times now, don’t even try denying it. Besides, I happen to remember you being a decent duellist back in Second Year. Thought you’d jump at the chance of a rematch.”

Draco let out a noise halfway between an indignant huff and the sound a duck might make if it were being strangled. “Decent! Now you see here, Potter, I’ll have you know I came up _second_ in my year during Auror training—”

“And I first.” Harry just grinned wider at the death glare Draco shot him and shrugged. “Just putting it out there.”

A few moments of silent glaring passed, until Draco snorted. “And you honestly believe us Slytherins are the arrogant ones.” He shook his head again, sighing the same sort of exhausted sigh he’d given Harry shit for just minutes earlier. “But my point stands, Potter, I am not duelling with you in your apartment, do you have any idea how much damage you’d end up having to pay for, plus I sincerely doubt your muggle neighbours would appreciate it much—”

“We’ll put up wards. And it’s not like we’re going to try and blow each other up.”

At this, Draco looked up again, blond eyebrows furrowed. “ _I_ won’t. And I don’t think you will either, at least not intentionally. But you have met you, right? Your magical control is practically non-existent. All raw power and no restraint.”

But Harry only shrugged again. “So you’ll have an easier time beating me. All you have to do is use that Slytherin cunning of yours, and voila, you win. Imagine having bragging rights that you beat Harry Potter in a duel.”

A long moment of silence passed, in which Draco seemed to be considering the offer—Harry certainly hoped he was considering the offer—all the while wearing that godawful mask of inscrutability again. Until, eventually, finally, the blond threw up his hands. “You are _so_ full of shit, I’ll have you know. But, fine! _Fine_! We’ll do it, and if something happens—no, scratch that— _when_ something happens, I swear on my mother’s favourite china set that I will make you regret the day you were born.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Your mother’s favourite china set, eh?”

“Fuck off, Potter.”

And so that was how Harry ended up weaving a complex net of protection spells on his apartment and belongings therein, then clearing every last piece of furniture and residual items out of the way until nothing but a large, empty space remained in his living room, while Draco, the prick, simply stood by, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, a steaming mug of coffee clasped in his hands, and watched Harry with an expression that screamed both sardonic amusement and the clear message ‘You are a complete and utter idiot and I hate you’.

Except, Harry was fairly confident Draco Malfoy did not, in fact, hate him, and that knowledge brought a large smile to his face even as he pushed the heavy coffee table up against the wall.

When it was safely out of the way, Harry stepped back with a sigh, brushing his hands together as he surveyed his handiwork. “There. All done.”

Draco finally dislodged himself from the doorway, levitating his mug into the kitchen. He sauntered over to Harry in the middle of the now-empty living room, took one look at the piled-up furniture and rolled those grey eyes. “You do realize you’re a wizard, right? As in, magic wand, levitating spells, a certain feather-light charm?”

There was a long beat of silence.

Harry stared at the Slytherin. “It didn’t cross your mind to remind me of this earlier?”

“No, it did. I just didn’t do it.”

Another pulse of silence.

“So, wait, let me get this straight. Not only did you just stand there, watching me very nearly throw out my back, you also purposefully withheld the fact that I could do it all magically?”

Draco had the audacity— _the audacity_!—to shrug. “If you need reminding that you can use magic, then you deserve very nearly throwing out your back.”

Silence.

“I am going to kill you. You do realize that, right.”

The Slytherin had the nerve to smirk. “You can certainly try.” And then, within a split-second, he had his wand out and a bright orange hex was speeding towards Harry, and were it not for his Seeker-instincts that had him putting up a hasty, wandless Protego just in the nick of time, the hex would have hit him square in the chest.

“Oi!” Harry exclaimed once he’d regained his composure and whipped out his own wand. “The duel hasn’t even started yet, arsehole! How about a little heads-up next time?”

Draco, who was already across the room again, a Protego of his own making shimmering in front of him, grinned manically. “Fine—heads-up.”

And another spell, this time blue, shot out of his wand at Harry, and the latter ducked just in time to see the spell melt into the invisible walls Harry’d (single-handedly!) set up minutes before.

His head snapped back up and he fixed the Slytherin with his best replica of Hermione’s most scathing glower. “You absolute prick, Malfoy. You are _so_ done for.”

Draco’s smirk only widened in response. “Is that a promise?”

Harry didn’t have time to reply, because that was when Draco’s third spell hit just a few inches north of Harry’s head. This time Harry was prepared, though, and he threw up another, stronger Protego, only to then immediately start firing his own volley of hexes at the blond Slytherin, who let out what sounded suspiciously like a cackle as he dove to the right, dodging the streaks of yellow.

What followed next could only be described as a chaotic mess of spells and insults, underscored by the occasional laugh and cackle from Harry and Draco respectively. Draco, Harry learned, had indeed improved quite a staggering amount since their infamous duel back in Second Year. He may not have Harry’s vastness of sheer power, but that didn’t matter whatsoever, for Draco certainly made up for it in his casting. Each spell was meticulously cast and expertly aimed. Plus, Draco was fast, faster than Harry would quite like to admit, not only in his casting, but also in his reactions. The quick agility with which he dodged Harry’s jinxes made him an impossible target to hit, and, for the first time in a while, Harry didn’t hold back one bit. Because, one, there was no need to do so, and two, he strongly suspected that, if he did, Draco would personally drown him in a bowl of chocolate batter.

Minutes or hours later, they were both near-wheezing from both breathlessness and restrained laughter. Harry shouted, “Tarantallegra!” and Draco, who’d just hit Harry with an especially devious Tickling Hex and was currently busy laughing himself silly because of it, was hit squarely in the chest.

Instantly, his eyes widened as he looked down to find his feet suddenly kicking and flailing about in what Harry liked to think of as the best performance of a Dancing Feet Spell since…well, _ever_.

When Draco’s feet launched into what could only be some sort of particularly fast-paced jig—Seamus would have been proud—Harry gave a whistle. “Hell yeah! Rock it, Malfoy!”

Draco’s glower was truly something for the history books. “You are a dead man, Potter. You hear me? A _dead man_.”

Harry laughed and dove to the side just in time to miss Draco’s answering hex, and holy shit, Harry thought, a duel with Draco Malfoy wasn’t _allowed_ to be this fun. It should be illegal—it probably was illegal.

Yet here they were.

Harry didn’t wait for the Dancing Feet Spell to completely wear off, and so the moment he scrambled to his feet again, he was running across the living room, trying to get as much space between him and one fuming Draco Malfoy as humanly possible.

Sure enough, the spell wore off far too soon, and Harry was grinning wider than should be possible as the Slytherin bound after him, all the while cursing his name and simultaneously also the bubble of Protego-ed air Harry had drawn around himself. Harry had heard Draco curse so often now it shouldn’t come as a surprise anymore to hear the blond spout such foul words in his annoyingly charming, posh nobleman’s accent—but then again, Harry probably also shouldn’t be thinking in the first place how charming Draco Malfoy’s accent is, so. There’s that.

“Get over here, you tosser!” barked Draco. “I was going to go easy on you, but after that show of heinous diabolicality, you don’t deserve my mercy!”

Harry whirled around, grinning, wand pointed at Draco, who in turn already had his wand pointed at Harry. They both came to a screeching stop, wands drawn, eyes locked, both waiting for the other to attack first.

Harry must have hit his head or something, for he was feeling increasingly lightheaded, and he said, “Scared, Malfoy?”

A flicker of something Harry couldn’t place flashed in Draco’s eyes, but then it was gone again, and the Slytherin simply grinned back. “You wish, Potter.”

And at that moment three things happened at once:

First of all, Draco’s hand, the one holding his wand, lifted just a fraction of an inch, hardly enough to be particularly noticeable, but more than enough for Harry to notice. He recognized this as one of Draco’s few tells he was about to cast, and so he immediately took an automatic step backwards.

Secondly, with his gaze still solely focused on Draco, that automatic step backwards turned into an automatic _slide_ backwards, because in all his wise foresight, Harry had completely forgotten to put away the rug, as well, and now he was paying the price for it.

And thirdly, as he toppled backwards, his free hand instinctively reached out to grasp on to whatever object was nearest to slow his fall. Only the nearest object wasn’t an object at all, but a Draco, and so when Harry went crashing down, Draco, whose shirt collar was now firmly fisted in Harry’s hand, went crashing down, too.

For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody breathed—at least Harry knew he sure as hell didn’t—and instead all they did was stare at each other where they lay in an awkward heap on the living room floor, Harry flat on his back and Draco right on top of him, silver eyes as wide as saucers.

Harry knew he should move. He should move, and he should stand up, and he should laugh it all off, offer an awkward joke or two about his ridiculous clumsiness and then act as though none of it had happened, as though it were nothing and as though he wasn’t mentally panicking.

But Harry didn’t do that, couldn’t do that. And neither did Draco.

Harry was very painfully aware of how close they were all of a sudden. He was also painfully aware of how large and deeply silver Draco’s eyes were, how harsh and dramatic the angles of his face were as it floated there, just inches over Harry’s, and yet at the same time so very soft, of how light and sleek and soft his hair looked as it spilled down like torrents from a waterfall.

Harry’s mind had gone completely blank, and his heart was suddenly beating far too loud and far too fast in his ears, and all he could do was stare, stare up at Draco and try to act as though he wasn’t, try to act as though everything was perfectly normal, thank you very much.

And, fuck, Draco was _not helping_ just sitting there, staring right back down at Harry with equally startled eyes, as though he were in a Body-Bind and not perfectly capable of _getting the fuck up_ at any second.

Harry finally blinked and averted his gaze, feeling his face flush but unable—and, maybe, just maybe, unwilling—to pinpoint exactly why. “Err, sorry, can you…?”

Draco, too, blinked, and just like that his shock morphed into blatant mortification, only to vanish again a second later as he schooled his features back into composure. “Yes, I…of course.” He scrambled off Harry so fast one might think Harry had some contagious disease. The way the blond very determinedly would not look anywhere near him when Harry stood as well only served to further underline that theory.

The shift in the air was palpable, and Harry didn’t quite know what to do or say as they stood there in awkward silence, a very respectable, appropriate distance in between them. But, for all his usual quick-witted eloquence, Draco didn’t seem to know, either.

Finally, Draco cleared his throat. “Call it a tie, then? By the way things were going, I think that assessment is fairest.” The Slytherin kept his voice neutral and light and calm, and if Harry didn’t know so much better now, he might have been fooled by Draco’s apparent nonchalance. But there was a certain edge to his tone, a strain in his words, and he still wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

Harry nodded cautiously. “Err, sure. Yeah. Sounds good.” He hesitated. “Mind helping me put the furniture back in place? I’m not letting you sit back and watch again while I do all the work.” It was meant as a joke, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to grin.

Thankfully, Draco nodded, giving a small, if strained, smile of his own. “Fine. But, in my defence, you seemed to be doing perfectly well by yourself. Not that I’m surprised; brute force is all you Gryffindors are good for. That, and reckless shenanigans like _stealing a magical car to fly to Hogwarts as a bloody twelve-year-old_.”

Harry snorted. “You are never going to let me live that one down, are you.” He knew he shouldn’t have told the Slytherin about that—except he enjoyed talking to Draco, and it had all been well worth it just to see the look on his face when Harry had told him about the Ford-Angelina-Incident in Second Year.

Draco’s grin was almost back to its normal wolfishness. “Indeed, I will not.”

Harry shook his head, but nonetheless couldn’t quite suppress a grin. “You’re such a prat.”

“And you’re such a Gryffindor.”

“Why thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

They spent the next half hour putting all the furniture back in its rightful place, passing their time in bouts of both amicable silence and equally amicable bickering. The awkward tension from before quickly dissipated again, for which Harry was eternally grateful, for he wasn’t certain what he’d have done if Draco suddenly stopped talking to him. Being locked in one’s own apartment with a single person as company made you very dependant on said person as far as conversations are concerned.

Besides, Harry hadn’t lied before; they hadn’t had a good start, but he was slowly but surely coming to see Draco Malfoy as a real friend, for all that may entail now and in the future. If Harry had any say in the matter—and he’d bloody well make sure he did—he wouldn’t allow that to be lost.

After they’d finally finished stowing everything away again, Harry had journeyed into the kitchen for some water, and Draco had trailed after him. And be it due to their mutual exhaustion after the duel, or perhaps their shared boredom, Harry couldn’t say for sure—but for some reason or another, he now found himself sitting slumped against the fridge, cross-legged and clutching a large bar of chocolate, while Draco sat to his left, legs drawn up to his chest, hair a tousled but at the same time still perfectly elegant mess, thoughtfully chewing on his own broken-off piece of chocolate as he stared ahead into nothing.

It was all so incredibly bizarre, and yet at the same time also so very not.

“What’re you thinking about?” Harry asked, taking another bite of the chocolate. It was white chocolate—Harry’s guilty pleasure—and he was rather surprised Draco had accepted a piece of it in the first place. He’d expected the Slytherin to go on a tirade right along the lines of ‘gah it’s so bloody sweet I feel like my teeth are about to fall out how can you eat this Potter you utter loon’. Harry had never asked him outright, but he could just _tell_ Draco was a dark chocolate sort of person, as in 90% cocoa, so bitter it made you grimace. Harry just knew it.

Draco kept staring ahead, but said finally, “My mother, to be perfectly honest.”

Harry swallowed before replying, both because he needed the time to come up with a suitable response and because he doubted Draco would appreciate the alternative—he may not agree with his father’s ideology, but Draco was still a well-bred, well-mannered pureblood through-and-through, and speaking whilst chewing was something even Harry had been taught was impolite.

“Is she unwell? Your mother, I mean.”

Draco loosened a sigh. “Not any more so than she’s been these past three years, I suppose. She says she’s fine, and that I needn’t worry, that she’d tell me if something were the matter. Only…well, I still worry, don’t I? A part of me feels like I should be at the Manor with her, just in case. But then again, there’s nothing I _can_ do. And besides, it’s not like I can leave you alone here anyway.” He said it like a joke, but Harry couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty. “It’s silly, I know.”

“No,” Harry insisted. “No, it’s not silly at all. You said the other day that you were worried about her, too. Is she sick? Or is it because of…” Harry trailed off, not entirely sure Draco would want him to finish that sentence.

But he needn’t have worried. “My father?” Draco finished, face as grim as his tone. “Yes. Lucius was never a very good father, to put it mildly, and I doubt he was a very good husband, either. Mind you, he never…hit my mum, or insulted her, or anything like that. He simply…never quite learned how to show affection. He was of the firm belief love is a weakness.” The blond scoffed. “But mum loved him anyway. Still does, I think. And I suppose she’d have to, seeing as he’s her soulmate.”

Harry blinked in surprise, nearly dropping his chocolate. “Really?”

“Really. I always found it hard to believe, as well. Your soulmate is supposed to be the one person in the world who will love you always, unconditionally, despite everything. I guess it’s possible he did love her, in his own bizarre way. But it always seemed cruel to me, nonetheless.”

Harry hesitated, before admitting quietly, “I thought it was an arranged marriage.”

Draco only nodded. “It was, in a way. Naturally, my grandparents were absolutely thrilled when it turned out my parents were each other’s soulmates. But if they hadn’t been, it wouldn’t have made a difference either.” He shrugged. “It was just an added bonus.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment. “God, that’s…awful.”

“Yes. Much good it did them, too. Now that Lucius is locked up in Azkaban, slowly wasting away day by day, my mother gets to experience that as well. I used to wonder all the time whether the Wizengamot let her off the hook on purpose, knowing she’d suffer right alongside my father anyway.”

Harry furrowed his brow, turning to face Draco fully. The blond still had his gaze trained on some unfixed point ahead, chocolate clutched in one hand and wand held loosely in the other, and he looked… Well. Draco looked sad.

Harry began slowly, “Look, this may sound inconsiderate, and you really don’t have to answer the question if you don’t want to. It’s just…” He hesitated. He really didn’t want to upset Draco any further, but something about the Slytherin’s words… “What do you mean, she gets to experience that, too?”

Draco turned to look at him, too. “Harry,” he said slowly. “They’re _soulmates_.” As though that were a sufficient explanation.

Harry frowned. “Yes, I got that part. What does that have to do with anything?”

There was a long moment of silence, in which Draco simply stared at Harry, grey eyes unreadable. Then, finally, Draco said, “Merlin, don’t tell me you honestly don’t know?”

“Know what?” Draco scrunched up his nose. “And quit looking at me like that. I’m not a pureblood, remember?”

Draco blinked. “Salazar.” He shook his head, and his expression was a strange mixture of emotions, none of which Harry could decipher. “Okay. Alright. I’ll just…try to explain it all.” The Slytherin looked back up at Harry, eyes narrowed as he studied him. “And you really know nothing?”

“Define nothing. I know a soulmate is like your other half. Doesn’t that about cover it?”

Draco looked absolutely baffled. At least he wasn’t sad anymore, Harry thought weakly. “Merlin, I really can’t believe you don’t know this. How can you not know this? You have a bloody soulmark!”

“Yes, well,” Harry said dryly, “it didn’t exactly come with instructions.”

Draco inhaled deep, centring himself. “Okay. Fine. We’ll start at the beginning, then. So, essentially, a soulmate-bond in its most basic form is two people with two matching magical cores, right? This doesn’t necessarily mean the extent of their magical power is identical. It just means their cores fit together, sort of like puzzle pieces. But for a soulmate-bond to flourish, there also needs to be a certain level of emotional understanding between the two parties.”

Harry nodded along to his words. “I heard about that. That’s why you need to develop feelings for your soulmate before their full name appears on your wrist, right?”

An especially odd flash passed across the Slytherin’s face, but then it was gone again, and all that remained was an odd tinge of red in Draco’s cheeks. “ _Feelings_ aren’t enough. You have to be fully in love with your soulmate for a soulmark to turn into an actual name.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_.” Draco looked both extraordinarily exasperated and uncomfortable at the same time. “Once both parties accept the soulmate-bond and enter into courtship, it’s more or less a no-going-back type of situation. Not that many soulmates would actually _want_ to. Once you accept the bond, your magical cores are basically intertwined. On the one hand, this means more power. On the other hand, though, if one core is damaged, so is the other.”

And it dawned upon Harry what Draco must have meant earlier. “So if your father’s core is slowly dying over in Azkaban, then your mother’s core…”

“Is dying as well. Yes. That about sums the whole problem up.”

Silence.

Harry shook his head, the chocolate laying forgotten in his lap. “I’m so sorry, Draco. Honestly. That’s just…wow. I can’t even begin to imagine what your mother must be going through.” He paused. “Is there anything that can be done? To help her?”

Draco was silent for a long moment. So long, in fact, that Harry started to think he wasn’t going to reply at all. Long, long moments ticked by, the playful mirth of the duel forgotten, the silence hanging in the air like smog.

But then the Slytherin said quietly, so quietly it was barely more than a whisper, “I don’t know.”

The heavy silence crept back in, and Draco still wouldn’t look at Harry, still looked so sad, so miserable, so hopeless, and Harry hated it, hated it with every fibre of his being. Just minutes before the joy on the Slytherin’s face had been near-radiant, his eyes aglow with happiness as they’d dodged each other’s hexes, laughing as though they really didn’t have a care in the world.

Only they did. They had so, so many reasons to care, to worry, to be as sad and silent as Draco now was. And Harry hated it.

They’d won the war, yes. But, honestly, at what cost?

Harry stood so abruptly Draco started in surprise. But Harry just threw the half-eaten bar of chocolate onto the kitchen counter and extended his now-free hand to where the blond Slytherin still sat on the floor, looking torn between his previous misery and wary confusion.

“Get up.”

Draco’s brow furrowed, and he squinted first at the hand, then up at Harry. “Why?”

Harry let out a little huff. “Does it really matter? You can either stay there and be miserable, or you can get up and do something that might take your mind off everything. And I, for one, would much rather appreciate option number two.” He wiggled his outstretched hand. “So, come on. Get up.”

Draco studied the hand critically for another long moment, and Harry felt tempted to simply seize him by the shoulders and pull him up. But he controlled himself, instead waiting more or less patiently for Draco to take his hand.

And, at last, he did.

Draco made to let go of Harry’s hand once he’d gotten up again, lips pursed into that familiar look of poorly-suppressed exasperation. But Harry in turn only gripped the Slytherin’s hand tighter, grinning brightly, and said, “Nope. I thought you’d realised by now, Malfoy; you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Draco’s mouth quirked into the tiniest of smiles, and although it was hardly anything at all compared to the humongous grin he’d worn plastered across his face during their play-duel, it made Harry instantly glad he’d held on.

“Fine,” he said. “But this better not be another one of your Gryffindor-schemes.”

Harry shot him an especially large grin in response. “You know it. So, remember how I said earlier I was really great at Uno…?”

Draco groaned, dramatic enough Harry just knew he’d be covering his face with both his hands right about now if Harry weren’t so firmly holding on to one. “Salazar’s balls, Potter, I don’t even know what that _is_!”

“Exactly,” Harry simply agreed, “so you can’t claim you already hate it. I’ll teach you the basics first. It’s easy, trust me. And afterwards I’ll go easy on you, at least at the beginning—but once you get the hang of it, prepare to be destroyed.”

“But I—”

“No buts!” Harry proclaimed, and then he was tugging at Draco’s hand, pulling the lagging Slytherin back through the kitchen and into the living room. “Uno makes everything better, promise. You’ll be smirking that Slytherin smirk of yours again in no time at all.”

Draco didn’t stop grumbling, but let himself be pulled along, nonetheless. “And they say us Slytherins are the conniving ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading, and thank you even more for your kudos and comments!


	12. beignets and olive branches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is, once again, solely in Harry’s POV. I switch in between his and Draco’s depending on whose perspective is more fitting / central to the plot in each chapter. However, I promise there’ll be much more Draco Chapter 13.  
> Also, on a wholly unrelated note, I have a physics exam next week and I’m panicking.  
> Anyways, enjoy the phenomenal mess that is Chapter 12! (*cue evil cackling in distance*)

Harry was busy making himself a cheese sandwich when the Floo sounded.

Confused, he set the butterknife back on the kitchen counter, absentmindedly wiping the remaining butter off on his piece of bread, and strained his neck to get a glimpse into the living room. What with Hermione, Ron and the rest of his friends having already stopped by on Thursday, plus Pansy Parkinson, he couldn’t think of anyone else who might want to visit him. Draco had grumbled something about how Parkinson might show up again around four to pick them up for what Harry had nicknamed Saturday’s Slytherin Shopping Spree (Draco was, needless to say, not impressed), but, for one, to Harry’s ears that had sounded like a big _might_. Harry couldn’t claim he knew Pansy Parkinson well, but on the various occasions he had interacted with her in the past, he’d gotten the distinct impression Pansy just generally did whatever the fuck Pansy wanted to do, and fuck you. Plus, it was barely eleven, so either Draco had been grossly misinformed, or it was someone else entirely.

“Draco, who is—” Harry began as he made his way into the living room.

And then stopped dead in his tracks when he walked in on a glaring-contest between Draco and, much to Harry’s surprise, Nic. Which is to say, Draco was sitting in his usual armchair, back ramrod straight, glowering at the brunet as though he were some deformed cross of a flobberworm and a fire slug, while Nic just stood by the fireplace, awkwardly clutching a little basket, expression caught somewhere between dislike and pure discomfort.

Christ.

Harry’s mind was already devising a hundred different escape routes with varying degrees of success, wondering whether either of the other men would notice if he slowly slunk back into the kitchen and acted like he’d never set foot in the living room in the first place, because honestly, wasn’t he supposed to stay cooped up in his flat to _avoid_ scenes of mass destruction and bloodshed? This just seemed counterproductive.

But, of course, Harry being Harry and having the luck of your average Grim, his stealthy retreat back into the kitchen was cut short when he bumped into the very sharp edge of a nearby cabinet, eliciting a sharp, involuntary “ _ow_!” from his traitorous mouth.

Within an instant, two pairs of eyes focused on him, one blue, one grey, and Harry cursed his complete lack of grace. However, he forced a small smile, although its effectiveness was likely limited due to his pre-existing grimace.

“Nic,” he said, keeping his tone light but cautious. “What’re you doing here?”

Harry braced himself for a glare, but the moment Harry spoke, Nic’s posture lost a bit of its edge, and the man smiled, evidently relieved. “Oh, hey Harry. Sorry for intruding. Parvati said she’d talked to you, and since you weren’t replying to any of my owls, I thought might as well drop by.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Owls?”

Nic blinked, surprised. “Yeah, owls. I sent, like, ten letters, give or take? I just thought I ought to explain myself regarding the other night.” His mouth tugged into a pensive frown. “You didn’t get any letters? At all?”

Harry shook his head. “I didn’t, sorry.”

At that, Draco made a noise halfway between a snort and a sigh, somehow simultaneously derisive and exasperated. Harry’s gaze focused on the blond, whose glower, he found, had very decidedly not lessened—on the contrary. Harry winced; Draco only looked _more_ irritated, hands gripping his book so tight one might think it were single-handedly responsible for all the world’s maladies.

The Slytherin’s narrowed eyes never left Nic once as he snapped, “He didn’t get any letters because this entire building is _warded_. The ministry takes its duties seriously when it comes to protecting the Chosen One from potential murder. We can’t have any strangers sending him odd letters and packages, now can we, what with the _multiple assassination attempts_ there’ve been so far on his life.”

And just like that, all sentiments of empathy were replaced with those of uproar.

“Wait, _what_?” The summer before his Second Year—that’s what this reminded Harry of. And they weren’t pleasant memories. He’d long since forgiven Dobby for keeping all his friends’ letters from him, after all, the little elf had only been trying to help. But the memory still left a sour taste in Harry’s mouth, even eight years later. “But they can’t just hold back my letters! Robards never said anything about—”

“Robards thought it best not to tell you. Probably, if I had to guess, to avoid a reaction like this one. Surely even you must understand it’s for the best,” Draco drawled, and the iciness in his tone shocked Harry into silence. “Or would you rather Yaxley be able to simply stroll up to the next best owl, strap a package full of Garrotting Gas to it and merrily send the thing over so you can suffocate in your own living room?”

Harry was too stunned to reply. The icy drawl, the sneer, the glare—it reminded Harry far too much of Hogwarts-era-Draco, of Draco-the-blood-purist, of _Malfoy_. Where was the Draco that stress-baked chocolate cakes wearing a pink, flower-studded apron?

Still at the fireplace, Nic cleared his throat, reminding Harry with a bang that he was, in fact, staring at Draco again. The brunet looked exceedingly uncomfortable, especially as he said, “Uhm…okay then. Anyway, I’m sorry if I came at a bad time, I can leave again if you want—”

Harry said “No, it’s fine” at the same time as Draco bit out “Yes, that would be lovely”.

Harry turned to glare reprovingly at Draco. But the Slytherin wouldn’t even deign him a glance, so the gesture went wholly and entirely unnoticed. For some reason, this annoyed Harry almost as much as Draco’s cold sneer, and he gritted his teeth and said to Nic, “No, it’s fine. Honest. You’re here now, so you might as well stay.” He gestured at the armchair across the carpet, the one not occupied by a certain blond, sneering Slytherin—Harry’s usual armchair. “Sit, make yourself at home. Do you want something to drink? Water, tea, coffee…?”

Nic made an effort to smile, although he was still visibly uncomfortable as he gingerly settled into the armchair. “Water’s absolutely fine. Thanks.”

Harry gave a curt nod and headed back into the kitchen. He glanced at Draco as he passed, but again the blond would not meet his gaze, too busy glowering. Either he simply didn’t notice, or he very much did and merely could not be bothered to meet Harry’s eyes—whichever option it was, Harry didn’t like it one bit.

Harry quickly fetched a glass and filled it with water, then traversed the room again to hand it to Nic. The man smiled again and mumbled a quick thanks, dislodging his hands from the basket long enough to take the glass and take a small sip.

A long moment of relatively tense silence passed, in which no one, not Nic and least of all Draco, seemed eager to speak.

Good God, Harry thought miserably, he really, really should have stayed in the bloody kitchen.

“Right then,” Harry said, hoping his tone was light. This situation sure as hell needed it. “So, Nic, you said you wanted to explain yourself?”

Nic nodded. “Yes, of course. Sorry, I would’ve come over with Parvati and the others yesterday, but I had an appointment I couldn’t postpone.” He took a deep breath. “I just really wanted to apologize. Back at the pub, I acted like a dick. It was…uncalled for. Again, my sincerest apologies.”

Harry blinked. “Err, thanks, Nic. But, to be entirely frank, I don’t think I’m the one you ought to be apologizing to right now.”

Both his and Nic’s eyes shifted to where Draco still sat, straight-backed and glaring. A glare that only intensified under the combined weight of their stares. But at least he didn’t say anything cruel, instead simply narrowing his eyes and tapering his lips and huffing contemptuously.

If not for the blond’s murderous expression and the overall static tension in the air, Harry might have laughed; no one did I’m-too-good-for-you-so-bow-you-lowly-peasant quite like Draco Malfoy.

“Oh. Err, yes. Of course,” said Nic, his enthusiasm restricted, to say the least. “Malfoy. Draco. My behaviour was inconsiderate. The things I said… They weren’t fair to you, nor were they true. I, uhm. Well.” He gave a weak little laugh, evidently uncomfortable. Harry couldn’t blame him. “This is awkward. I know this isn’t much of an explanation, and certainly not a good justification. But. It was a hard day for me, Tuesday.”

Draco showed no reaction. Harry didn’t know whether to interpret this as a good thing or a bad thing. He simply sat there and impaled Nic with that glare of his, and if it weren’t for the slight occasional twitch of dislike at the corners of Draco’s mouth, Harry might have guessed someone had put a Full Body-Bind on the Slytherin. Harry inwardly sighed. This was going to take a while.

He smiled at Nic and asked gently, since Draco obviously wasn’t about to, “What happened on Tuesday?”

Nic gave him a small grateful smile in return, although the painful tinge to it was unmistakable. “Nothing _this_ Tuesday. It happened a few years back. As I already said, I’m originally from London. My dad’s British.”

“He’s a muggle, right?” Harry said, silently proud of himself he’d remembered that much. Honestly, Hermione was right; his memory was almost as terrible as his eyesight.

Surprise flashed across Nic’s face, that and something else. “Oh. Uhm. Yeah. Yeah, he is.” Something in his tone was odd, but Harry couldn’t put his finger on what, exactly, and then Nic was continuing, “My older sister, Cordelia, moved back here a few years before the war. She wanted to be an Auror. It was her life-long dream, you see. And, let me tell you, if that girl put her mind to something, you’d have a hard time trying to talk her out of it. Delia went into Auror training and graduated just a few years before the war really kicked off. She was…good at it. Really good, in fact. Graduated top of her class.” A wistful smile coasted across Nic’s face, and this time the pain in his eyes was heart-wrenchingly obvious. He shook his head, as if to clear his mind. “Anyway, long story short, she got into a duel with a bunch of Death Eaters and…didn’t make it out. She put up a fight, though. Took three of them out, just by herself. That was Delia: a fighter, through and through.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again, suddenly feeling Nic’s grief as acutely as if it were his own. Losing loved ones in the war was something he knew plenty about. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

Nic gave a half-hearted shrug. “Yeah, well, it’s been a few years. It’s just hard, is all. And it doesn’t get easier, no matter what people tell you.”

“No,” Harry agreed quietly, his throat suddenly tight, exasperation forgotten. “No, it doesn’t.”

There was a long, long moment of silence.

After the war, things had been hard for Harry. He had no trouble admitting that. Things had been hard for everyone, he knew, not only those directly involved in the Battle of Hogwarts. But it had taken him longer than others to fit himself back into the mould, to find his way back into ‘normal life’, as Hermione so loved putting it—a life where he didn’t have to look over his shoulder every two seconds, a life where there was no Voldemort chasing him, a life where the day’s most challenging feat was figuring out what brand of cereal to buy at the grocery store.

Harry’s friends had all bounced back relatively quickly, even the Weasleys, although Fred’s loss was something Harry knew as a fact none of them were ever going to get over, not now, three years later, nor in ten more years, nor in a hundred. It was the same with everyone he’d lost: not just Fred, but Sirius as well, Remus, Dumbledore, Dobby, Tonks—the list went on and on. Harry had sworn to himself on the day of the Battle, as the dust cleared and the world settled, as, for the first time in years, people no longer had to fear for their lives but could finally be safe, be free, be _alive_ , that he would never forget those who could not. Those, who had given up their lives to ensure others might keep theirs.

The war was indeed over. But the pain it had caused—that never would be.

“Tuesday was the anniversary of Delia’s death,” Nic continued, “and I was trying to keep it together. I was doing a pretty good job at it, too. Until, you know.” He made a vague motion with his hand. “I snapped. I’m sorry. My anger wasn’t directed towards you. I just saw you, a Malfoy, and I remembered who you were, what you were, and I…didn’t handle things well.”

Draco grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

“Sorry?”

The Slytherin’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Harry feared another argument might break out, this time in the limited, confined space of his living room.

The truth was, Harry liked how far they’d come, him and Draco. As a matter of fact, he liked it very much. He liked how funny and kind and selfless the new Draco was. He liked how he baked when he was stressed, and how he laughed when the inevitable came to pass and Harry did something stupid yet again, and how he cheated at Uno and defended his use of a nine on top of a six because _come on, Potter, it looks like a six, are you sure it’s not a six, you’re half-blind anyway so, really, who’s to say it’s_ not _a six_. In all honesty, Harry liked most things about Draco.

He did not, however, like the way the sneer darkened and twisted Draco’s entire face and made him look chillingly different from the man Harry now thought of as a friend—different, and distressingly similar to the person Harry’d once called an enemy.

But then, much to Harry’s utter bewilderment, that sneer fell away. Just like that. It was there, and then a blink of an eye later, it wasn’t, and Draco had plastered what could only be described as the blandest of bland smiles over his face. And although it didn’t meet his cool grey eyes, Harry was so taken aback by the sudden change in demeanour he didn’t even try to hide his gaping.

“Nothing at all,” said Draco, voice just as delightfully lacklustre as his smile. “I simply said I’m sorry for your loss. That must have been terrible, having to go through that. The death of a family member is unbearable, especially if you were as close as you and your sister undoubtedly were. Anyway, there are no hard feelings, of course. Know that I don’t blame you for acting like a petty, smallminded buffoon, not under the circumstances. It’s all in the past now. Water under the bridge.”

Harry only dimly noted how Draco hadn’t, in fact, apologized for his own behaviour on Tuesday evening, too utterly flummoxed by the man’s sudden change of heart. And, okay, yes, wary, too. Because, to put it simply, what the actual fuck was happening.

“So, yes, _of_ _course_ I accept your apology,” Draco continued, oblivious to Harry’s disbelief. “How could I not, after you put so much effort into it. Writing all those letters—such a regrettable loss—and then coming here yourself. And, oh, it looks like you baked something, too. What a thoughtful request for forgiveness.”

Nic, who looked as surprised as Harry but at the same time also incredibly sceptical, opened his mouth, eyes narrowed suspiciously at Draco. But before he could say anything, Harry said, surprised, “You baked?”

Nic’s mouth tapered, and he shot another wary look at Draco, who simply smiled back, expression so sickly sweet it reminded Harry briefly and repulsively of Dolores Umbridge, may her soul rot in hell.

But then the brunet turned to Harry, forcing another smile as he nodded. “Yeah. Just some beignets. They’re sort of a family recipe, if you will; Grandma was famous for them. I could never get enough as a child, so I learned to make them myself, and, well. I thought you might like some.”

Before Harry could so much as open his mouth, Draco was up out of his armchair and smiling broadly as he said, “Why yes, I’m sure Harry and I will love them. Again, so very thoughtful of you.” And with that he plucked the basket from Nic’s lap, who looked a mixture between insulted and stunned. Nic opened his mouth as though he might argue, but then closed it again and simply watched Draco through somewhat narrowed eyes.

Draco’s smile wasn’t bland anymore—it was absolutely humongous, especially as he said, “Anyway, I’m certain you have about a million other things to do, so I won’t keep you here any longer. All is forgiven. You know, feel free to stop by any time; Harry and I certainly aren’t going anywhere.” He checked his wrist and tutted, and Harry was still so mystified he only later remembered Draco was neither wearing a wristwatch, nor did he own one in the first place.

That certainly didn’t stop him from cooing, “Oh, look at that. So sorry, I amend my statement; we aren’t going anywhere, _except today_. A shopping outing with some friends, you understand, and it seems we’re running terribly late. That’s too bad. Well, as I said, feel free to come by some other time.”

And with that he half-shooed, half-dragged Nic up from Harry’s armchair and over to the fireplace, where Draco proceeded to more or less gently shove the brunet into the hearth, thrusting a handful of Floo powder into his now-empty hands, all the while still beaming from ear to ear.

“It was such a pleasure,” the Slytherin said charmingly. “Have a good day.”

The dismissal was as subtle as a fist to the nose, and Harry could only gape at Draco, whose smile and gaze were focused entirely on Nic, who in turn stood there for a long moment, evidently torn between standing his ground and leaving as he’d wanted to do from the start. In the end, though, the latter won out, and he shot one last narrow-eyed look at Draco, before turning to face Harry.

“See you soon, then, I hope?”

Harry could only blink and manage a dazed, “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Nic nodded, already lifting his hand to throw down the green powder. But then he hesitated and said with a little lopsided smile, “Do try the beignets, though, will you? Trust me, you’ll love them.”

Draco gave a snort at that, but Harry steadfastly ignored the blond, instead smiling at Nic and nodding. “Will do. Thanks again.”

Nic smiled—and then he was gone in a poof of green fire.

The instant he was gone, Draco’s sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes as he walked the few steps back to his armchair and fell into it with another especially forceful sigh.

“What a ponce,” he muttered under his breath as he flicked his book back open, quiet enough it was possible Harry wasn’t meant to hear it, but also loud enough he probably was.

Harry blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. Finally, he settled on, “You have issues, you do realise that, right? Normal people can’t do that.”

“Whatever do you mean?” The git had the audacity to sound bored.

“ _That_.” Harry made a vague gesture at where Draco sat serenely in his armchair, leafing through his book, as though he hadn’t been all hellfire-and-wrath-of-the-gods just minutes before. “Normal people— _sane_ people—can’t switch emotions like that. Or fake them, for that matter, at least not that efficiently.”

Draco turned the page, not even glancing up at Harry. “Just because you’re about as transparent as an Invisibility Cloak doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be, too. But don’t worry your pretty little head about it—every proper pureblood knows how to fake a smile. It’s a necessary skill. Trust me.”

“So you’re admitting you’re not sane, then?” Harry said. “That you’re mad? Bonkers? An utter loon?”

“Three words, Potter: Pot. Kettle. Black.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Really, he ought to be annoyed with Draco, or at least reproving. Sure, Nic had been the arsehole first, but then he’d tried to apologize, and Draco had shot him down stone-cold. But Harry couldn’t dredge up the necessary ire to scold the blond, and so he simply plopped down in his own armchair with a, “Ha-ha. Very witty.”

“Why thank you,” Draco replied dryly. “It’s one of my many talents.”

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “Of which humility clearly isn’t one.”

But Draco only flipped the page again and replied, calm and blasé as ever, “Oh _please_. Remember how you were just lecturing me about faking a smile? Humility is the most rudimentary and gross form of fakeness, Potter. No one—I repeat, _no one_ —is genuinely humble. They’re just putting on a show, to draw attention to themselves and/or fish for compliments.”

“Ah, yes,” Harry said, smirking. “Because you would _never_ fish for compliments or draw attention to yourself. Ever. Perish the thought.”

That—and, okay, yes, probably Harry’s complete botchery of Draco’s posh accent—finally got the Slytherin to look up at Harry, if only to send a single withering glare his direction. But it was still worth it, and Harry couldn’t help but grin back.

“With a face like this,” the blond deadpanned, “it’d be a shame if I didn’t.”

Harry chuckled. “You’re honestly hopeless, you know that, right?” But, secretly, a part of him thought maybe Draco—obnoxious, arrogant, overbearing prick he may be—was right.

Draco’s lips quirked into the beginning of what might’ve been a grin. His posture had already lost most if not all of its previous rigidity, his shoulders no longer tight and his back no longer straight as an arrow, and the cold seeping out of his expression, replaced by that warm little smirk Harry had gotten so used to, was almost a palpable thing. Whether it was due to this or simply Harry’s inborn curiosity, he couldn’t say for sure, but before he could think twice about it, he blurted out, “Why didn’t you give him a second chance?”

And just like that, Draco went rigid, and Harry knew even before his expression slid back into that composed, icy nothingness that he’d done it again, he’d said something he shouldn’t have, he’d fucked up a perfectly good conversation.

He winced. “No, no, I’m on your side, I promise. I completely agree Nic acted like a bastard the other night—that’s a fact. But, thing is, I did too. I was even worse, really, because we’d already agreed to let bygones be bygones and move on, and I went and completely ignored that, didn’t I? And yet you still forgave me. I’m not saying you’ve got to befriend the man or anything. But you heard what happened to his sister, and he came all the way here to apologize, and he even baked something. So, why not give him a second chance, too?”

Draco looked at him long and hard, eyes hard but expression otherwise unreadable, and Harry was almost certain he was about to be torn a new one in the most brutal and deafening way possible. He just prayed the flat would still be standing once the Slytherin was done.

But there would be no yelling, and there would be no cursing. Draco simply clenched his jaw and hissed coolly, “Do not for a single second put yourself on an equal footing with that man.”

Harry gaped.

But Draco was already continuing, that familiar crease having already formed in between his eyebrows, and Harry knew the Slytherin was properly vexed now before he’d uttered a single word. “That man is an arsehole of the worst sort; not only is he a bastard, he’s also so revoltingly fake it makes me sick. I did you a _favour_ kicking him out. You obviously weren’t going to do it, you’re too kind, and he wasn’t about to leave of his own accord.” He snorted. “Merlin, do you even _realise_ why he was here?”

A crease of his own formed on Harry’s brow. “He came to apologize, Draco, why are you—”

“Apologize!” Draco snorted and shook his head. “Salazar, for the Saviour of the Wizarding World, you’re incredibly thick, aren’t you. The man didn’t write a dozen letters, Floo straight to your flat and _bake a basket of fucking beignets_ just to apologize, Potter.”

“Look,” Harry began, feeling both progressively confused and frustrated, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no need to be all cryptic; just tell me why you’re so angry and we can—”

“Oh my _God_!” The sheer exasperation in Draco’s tone and the huff he made promptly thereafter were enough to catch Harry completely off balance. “You don’t think it’s in the least bit odd he sent those ‘apology’ letters not to me, but to you? Or that he wouldn’t have thought to apologize to me in the first place if you hadn’t directly told him to? Or, I don’t know, the fact he was practically _drooling all over the fucking carpet_ the whole ten minutes he was here? One more of those ridiculously pathetic smiles and I’d have lost my breakfast.”

Harry opened his mouth, but he could think of no suitable response to _that_ —whatever the fuck _that_ had been. There was none, he was pretty sure. So, he simply squared his jaw and said in a measured tone, “I think you’re being unfair right now. He offered an olive branch, and you refused it. You can’t fault him for that.”

Draco huffed an entirely mirthless laugh. “I can assure you, if he was offering anyone anything, it sure as fuck wasn’t an olive branch.”

Calm, Harry reminded himself. Calm, calm, calm.

“Right, so I have absolutely no bloody clue what you’re on about now, but can we just back up to my original question? He’s not as bad as you make him out to be. I think if you gave him another chance—”

Draco narrowed his eyes and replied harshly, gaze interlocked with Harry’s and glinting ever so fiercely, “Frankly, Potter, I would rather eat this bloody book than give your precious Nic another chance.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to let out an exasperated huff. “He’s not _my_ anything. And you’re being overdramatic—as always.” He shook his head. “Look, forget I ever said anything. It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re free to do or say or feel whatever you want. Don’t let me stop you.”

Draco stared at him for a long, long moment. Harry half-expected him to start yelling, half-suspected the blond might just get up and leave; he certainly didn’t look to be Harry’s biggest fan at the time being.

But Draco, much to Harry’s surprise, merely snorted and directed his attention back down to his book. He didn’t say anything further, didn’t so much as glance up at Harry again. Yet he could have sworn the Slytherin muttered under his breath, so quietly it was near-inaudible, “When have you ever.”

Harry sat there, wordlessly watching him, for a long moment, before standing again, picking up the basket of beignets, and taking them into the kitchen. The beignets were perfectly golden, and they smelled divine. Tasted divine, too Harry found once he’d fished one out to try.

When he strolled back into the living room, silently munching on his beignet, his gaze instinctively drifted to Draco. Draco, who was already staring at him, grey eyes unreadable as they drilled into the half-eaten beignet lifted midway to Harry’s mouth.

They didn’t talk about Nic for the rest of the morning. But less than ten minutes after the beignet-incident, Draco shut his book with a decisive slam, stood, and marched into the kitchen. There was a grating sound, one Harry knew from years of living in the flat was the rubbish bin opening. Then seconds later a soft but definite thud.

Harry had a feeling if he went to search for more beignets now, he’d find they had magically disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for a jealous Draco sorry not sorry


	13. all with a crooked smile and a pair of twinkling emerald eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been working on this chapter for the past three weeks, and there have been so many drafts of it that I’ve honestly lost count. This particular one was made in the timespan between now and yesterday 1AM, and I’m still not entirely happy with it. But I reckon if I don’t just post this now I won’t ever, plus I need to post something today, so.  
> Enjoy!

“This is a horrible idea,” Draco said for about the fiftieth time. “One of these days you really are going to get yourself killed, because, frankly, I’m starting to tire of this whole bodyguard-business. Salazar, I’m beginning to feel like a bloody _Gryffindor_.” Draco huffed irately and glowered over at Harry, as though he were genuinely annoyed and it wasn’t instead a blatant lie.

Granted, the Gryffindor-ness of it all _was_ very much in-your-face, to a painful extent, even—but Draco was pretty sure that was just as much the _Harry_ -ness of it, because, let’s be honest, the Boy Who Lived Twice had never in his life learned the art of subtlety. It wasn’t his fault, Draco knew that, had realised it years ago, when childhood jealousy and bitter rivalry started morphing into something more, something stronger, yet in no way or form any less intense. But it was as much a fact of life as the Gryffindor’s short temper and messy hair and absolutely atrocious table manners—and Draco knew Harry would not be Harry without it.

But the tiring-of-this-whole-bodyguard-business— _that_ was a lie as big as it came. Imagine if Draco hadn’t found Harry that night outside in the alley, or if he’d gotten cold feet and left him at the hospital (because, hate the notion as he might, Draco knew that had been a real possibility), thus forcing Robards to assign some other Auror to Harry’s side, some random stranger, someone who would only see it as a job, an assignment to check off the list.

No, Draco was glad it was him. It was stressful and it was taxing, being so close to Harry at all times and yet so walled off, restricted, allowed only a few crooked smiles and indulgent laughs and dizzying gazes of bright, captivating emerald.

Yet Harry didn’t need to know that.

He didn’t need to know Draco missed him even when they were in the same room.

He didn’t need to know that every single of Draco’s sarcastic replies and irritated eye-rolls served the sole purpose of hiding his true thoughts and feelings, what happened inside his chest every time Harry directed that dazzling smile his way.

And he certainly didn’t need to know how much it had warmed Draco’s heart when he had insisted on coming, on meeting Draco’s closest friends, Draco’s family in every way but blood, had touched him deeper even than his fear that something might happen while they were out, that maybe this time they wouldn’t be so lucky, that Yaxley would be faster than Draco and Harry would pay the price.

But Harry didn’t need to know, and he wouldn’t, and for the time being Draco could content himself with simply watching his soulmate when the other boy wasn’t looking and thinking to himself that although he couldn’t have what he wanted deep down, _this_ , this something they had right now—it wasn’t so bad either.

Across the café booth, the object of Draco’s affections rolled his eyes dramatically, as though _Draco_ were the irrational one here. It ought to annoy him. Except it didn’t, not really, because it was really bloody hard to be annoyed with the git when he was smiling like _that_ , all crooked but perfect in its imperfection.

“Honestly,” sighed Harry. “Enough with the paranoia already. Everything’ll be _fine_. We’ve been out an hour already, and I’ve been neither poisoned nor assaulted. So tone down the worry, will you? Otherwise I’ll have to start thinking you _care_.”

Harry said it with a twinkle in his eye and a shit-eating sort of grin that would usually have Draco rolling his eyes right about now and replying dryly something along the lines of ‘You wish, Potter’ or ‘Ha, that’ll be the day’.

Only, Salazar and Merlin and Morgana, on top of all the stress and dread and tension, Draco simply did not have the _energy_ to do any of that right now. So, instead the Slytherin simply sat there and wondered to himself how much longer he could realistically keep up this show of restraint before he had a mental breakdown.

To Draco’s right, Pansy slurped loudly at her cappuccino, the black-lacquered pinkie of her right hand hoisted into the air as though the three of them were at one of her mother’s infamous tea parties instead of a packed, poorly lit, not to mention _packed_ café somewhere in the South of Wales. (Honestly, Draco would _prefer_ to be at one of said tea parties; not only were Yanmei Parkinson’s soirees never dull, Draco also strongly doubted his insides would feel like a bundle of writhing flobberworms right now if sat across Pansy’s mum instead of a certain green-eyed Gryffindor.)

And although Pansy refrained from commenting—thank Salazar for small mercies—the way her dark eyes danced with blatant glee overtop the rim of her mug conveyed her thoughts quite sufficiently.

Draco shot his friend a dirty glower, which of course only made her grin wider. He scowled, turning his narrowed gaze to Harry, who was already stuffing another madeleine into his mouth as though he hadn’t seen a morsel of food for days, even though Draco had personally watched the man eat a full plate of macarons, two croissants and a Pain Aux Raisins just minutes before.

“No, you listen to me, it _is_ a horrible idea,” Draco insisted. “And I’m not being _paranoid_. There’s no reason you should be out in the open like this, not when Yaxley has proven himself far more resourceful than anyone could have predicted. He obviously has allies in high places, otherwise there’s no way he’d have escaped the platoon of Aurors Robards sent after him the other day. And if thirty-something Aurors can’t hold their own against him, I doubt a disgraced heir, a fashion designer and a Healer-in-training will do you much good, Harry.”

“ _Harry_ ,” Pansy cooed into her coffee with a snort, smirk positively Cheshire, but both Draco and Harry ignored her.

“Oh, stop being so pessimistic,” the Gryffindor said with another flash of perfectly white teeth, and Draco gently set down his own chocolate éclair. After all, if he was going to make sure Yaxley didn’t murder Harry today, it’d do no one any good if he accidentally choked to death because his soulmate was just too bloody gorgeous.

“Better pessimistic and alive than optimistic and dead,” Draco snapped, reverting to insults as was his default, because it was just so, so much easier to pretend when he didn’t have to be civil to the beautiful prat. “This is stupid and reckless and absolutely insane. And with _this_ , Potter, I mean _you_.”

“And here I thought you’d be grateful to spend some time with your friends. You weren’t nearly as against this when Pansy first suggested it.”

Then there was that; the fact that Harry Potter and Pansy Parkinson, the two banes of Draco’s existence, had over the course of the past one hour somehow managed to become friends. Alright, maybe ‘friends’ was pushing it, but they were certainly a hell of a lot less hostile towards each other than they’d been before this little outing. Pansy had even pulled Draco aside at one point to tell him with a smirk, quote, ‘I’m starting to see why you like him so much. He’s rather adorable, your boy, at least when you get past the hero-complex and absolute lack of style.’.

And although Draco had immediately flushed crimson-red and vehemently shushed the girl—after all, they were in _public_ , _anyone_ could be listening—he’d secretly been quite pleased. Hearing Harry be called his _anything_ made Draco feel light-headed, although, rationally, he knew Harry would never be his. Maybe _especially_ because he knew Harry would never be his. It was wishful thinking, but Draco would much rather spend the afternoon daydreaming than fretting about a possible third assassination attempt.

“First of all,” Draco said, “Pansy did not ‘suggest’ anything. She told us the outing was happening and that we were coming, period. Had we tried to argue, she’d have no doubt bullied us into coming anyway. Isn’t that right, Pans?”

Pansy merely nodded. “Absolutely, dear.”

Draco huffed, satisfied, and threw a pointed look at Harry. “There you have it. That woman is ruthless, don’t be fooled by the dresses and heels.” Not that anyone in their right mind would ever be fooled by Pansy’s skin-tight leather dress and needle-like stilettos anyway.

“Ah, yes, because you’re such a walk in the park,” Harry answered with a laugh, and Draco didn’t even have the emotional capacity to feel vexed, not on top of everything else he felt every time he was within a one-mile-radius of Harry Potter. Which really was its own type of torture these days. If Lucius weren’t still so very alive, Draco might even guess it was his father’s revenge from above for Draco being such a horrible disgrace to the Malfoy name.

“I really am liking this new Potter,” Pansy said then with a shit-eating grin. “He says what we’re all thinking, only with the added benefit of not getting his head bitten off by Draco dearest when he does.”

Harry laughed, and Draco sent Pansy an especially cold glower. “You’re a horrible best friend, you know that?”

The she-devil simply puckered her violet lips and fluttered her eyelashes and cooed “Love you, too, darling”, and Draco knew the gesture alone would be enough to send his heart a-fluttering, were he not, of course, so regrettably gay.

For some reason, this only annoyed him further, and he grumbled, “You don’t deserve my love.” Harry only laughed harder, as if he weren’t single-handedly responsible for every and all of Draco’s frustrations, and Draco shot them both a glare.

“What’s that about Draco’s love?” came a sudden voice, and Draco dropped his head in his hands with a groan as Blaise appeared through the crowd and slid into the booth next to Harry. Draco had very nearly done so himself when they first arrived in the café, however, in light of Pansy’s knowing smirk, his own nerves and Harry’s, well, _Harry-ness_ , he’d ended up getting cold feet and settling across from the Gryffindor instead.

Now he rather wished he hadn’t.

Blaise huffed. “Please don’t tell me I just missed the single most important moment of Draco’s life. The culmination of years and years of griping and grousing and complaining and pi—”

“ _Zabini_!” Draco barked (although a ‘strangled yelp’ would likely be the more apt description), all the while hoping that Harry really was as oblivious as he’d led them all to believe this past decade and not secretly incredibly perceptive. That, and also that his face wasn’t red as a beetroot.

Thankfully, both Pansy and Harry were too busy laughing again to notice, it seemed, although judging by the evil glint in Pansy’s eyes, she knew _exactly_ what Blaise had been about to say.

“Unfortunately, no,” she said to Blaise, still grinning. “Not quite there yet, I’m afraid. Give it another week or so.”

“Oh well,” Blaise answered with a shrug, although judging by his humongous grin he wasn’t all too dispirited. “I suppose in the grand scheme of things another few days is nothing.”

Draco glowered at them both. “Salazar, shut _up_ , the both of you!” he hissed. “You’re such bloody wankers, I have no idea why I’m even friends with you lot.”

“Spare us the dramatics, darling,” said Pansy, and Blaise added, grinning manically, “You _adore_ us.”

Draco grumbled under his breath, “Again: wankers.”

Both Pansy and Blaise rolled their eyes, but thankfully ceased any further talk about ‘the single most important moment of Draco’s life’. The two of them started politely engaging Harry in conversation, asking him about his friends and Quidditch and when he planned on repainting his living room walls (Pansy’s doing, naturally, although Draco voiced his vehement agreement) (up until the point she suggested a nice emerald green, that is, and although Harry had of course immediately accused her of trying to ‘Slytherin-ify his flat’, Draco had flushed and refused to look anywhere near Harry’s eyes for the ensuing five minutes).

Draco had honestly begun to think he was off the hook.

He was wrong, of course.

“So, Potter,” said Blaise, and Draco already knew by his smooth tone that whatever came next would not be in his favour. “We’re all curious—the Prophet’s been uncharacteristically sparse about further details on your soulmark, and although I imagine that’s due to the fact that you’ve practically been under house arrest this past week, I can’t help but wonder: any juicy gossip?”

Harry flushed, but it was Draco who nearly spewed an entire mouthful of tea all over the table as he stared up at Blaise with plain, horrified shock. He wanted to be angry, or accusing, and he knew both those emotions would arise eventually. But at the moment all he could do was stare and hope Harry was too busy stammering out a response to notice Draco’s dread.

Indeed, Harry stammered and stuttered, until eventually he just averted his gaze, glaring down at his plate, and muttered petulantly, “That’s rather private, y’know.”

Pansy, much to Harry’s evident annoyance, snorted. “Oh, you’re _precious_ , aren’t you. Nothing’s private, not really, least of all something as mundane as a soulmark. Everyone has them, darling, there’s no need to be ashamed.”

“I’m not _ashamed_ ,” Harry said, and the fierce certainty both in his gaze and his tone made Draco’s heart sing. “I just don’t see how it’s anyone’s business at all who my apparent soulmate is—especially because _I_ don’t even know who they are.”

But Pansy simply waved him off, unimpressed. “All the more reason to tell us about anything… _unusual_ you might be experiencing,” she replied with a smirk. “We might be able to help you.”

Harry gave her a dubious look, as though he couldn’t quite figure out whether she was being serious or not. Not that Draco could blame him; Pansy was an enigma at best, a complete nutcase at worst. “How come people expect me to tell them any- and everything they want to know about _my_ soulmark, yet when it comes to _their_ soulmark they clam up?”

Draco froze, knowing even if Harry pointedly did _not_ look his way as he said it that the Gryffindor was referring to him. It made his stomach twist and churn, because he’d _love_ to tell him, to jump up, shove back his own sleeve, wave around his soulmark and tell Harry the truth, that he’d been in love with him since they met at age eleven. Except that’d just ruin everything, wouldn’t it?

Pansy—who, in contrast to Draco, looked completely unperturbed by the question—snorted again. “Salazar, if that was your game, you should have said so earlier.” And then she did what Draco so ardently wished he could do, and confidently and without hesitation pushed up the sleeve of her dress and grinned victoriously as she held out her wrist for everyone to see.

Draco didn’t need to look down; he already knew the sight that would await him. But Harry didn’t, and so his eyes went comically wide as he gaped down at Pansy’s wrist, at the name written thereon, irritation forgotten.

“ _Penelope Clearwater_?” he gasped, gaze disbelieving. “I thought…I always thought—” He stopped speaking abruptly and went red, looking away embarrassedly.

But Pansy simply chuckled. “That I liked blokes? Surely you’re not that small-minded. I’m _bi_ , Potter. It means I like boys _and_ girls.”

She said it slowly, as though explaining some complex mathematical equation to a small child, and Harry scowled slightly, although his cheeks were still pink, even as he grumbled testily, “I know what bi means.”

Pansy’s eyes sparkled with mirth and something much more sadistic, and Draco was afraid she’d say something uncalled for. But he needn’t have worried; instead of taunting Harry, she sighed softly and said, tone much gentler, “Look, Potter. Penelope’s my soulmate, it’s true. But she has a girlfriend. A fiancée, to be precise, as of a few weeks ago. And I’m happy for them. _They’re_ the ones made for each other. Pen and I are great as friends, but nothing more. And we’re both fine with that. You see, a soulmark isn’t destiny—it’s a possibility, a choice. Sure, usually it works out. But sometimes it doesn’t, and that’s okay, too. It’s only as big a deal as you make it.”

Draco knew almost better than anyone that Pansy Parkinson was not someone you ought to underestimate. She was smarter than she let on, more ingenious, and much, much more perceptive—all traits of a perfect Slytherin. It was one of the reasons she’d flourished so during their time at Hogwarts.

And although Draco knew all this, even he was taken aback by the wisdom of her words, as though she had decades upon decades of life experience to draw from instead of her actual twenty-one.

Harry seemed similarly awed, although his shock was understandably greater. “That’s…,” he tried and shook his head, making a strand of black fall into his eyes. “That’s actually rather brilliant, Parkinson.”

Pansy’s smirk returned in full force, and she flicked a strand of raven hair over her shoulder, looking equal measures haughty and pleased. “Don’t sound so shocked, Potter. I’m full of surprises. And I think, if you’re going to share a flat with my best friend, you really ought to start calling me Pansy.”

If he’d looked shocked before, Harry was absolutely baffled now, and Draco could only share the sentiment as he gaped over at his friend. But Harry nodded through his stunned state, and said, “I—yeah, okay. Sure. Why not.” He paused. “You’re still going to call me Potter, aren’t you?”

“Oh, indubitably.”

Harry nodded, dazed. “Cool.”

There was a beat of awkward silence, in which Pansy looked smug, Harry looked dazed, Draco _felt_ dazed, and Blaise.

Well.

Blaise looked once at Harry, once at Pansy, expression all the while appalled, and then proceeded to let out the most colossal and weary sigh known to humankind. “Bloody _hell_ ,” he groaned and pushed his teacup away. “I’m going to need something stronger.”

~~~

Draco stirred his tea and waited.

He’d been waiting for an hour now, and, yes, alright, Pansy had told him they’d be a while—well, strictly speaking she’d simply said, thankfully quiet enough only he could hear, ‘Just look at him, darling! _You_ may find his rat’s-nest-and-baggy-clothes look attractive, but the rest of us, those with _actual functioning eyes_ , deserve a Saviour that looks the part’, then promptly proceeded to drag one helpless-looking, pleading-eyed Harry out of the café by his shirt sleeve.

But still.

An hour was a bit much, wasn’t it?

It couldn’t take _that_ long to pick out a few new clothes, not under Pansy’s watchful eye, and a haircut was a matter of, what, ten, twenty minutes? An _hour_ , on the other hand, an _hour_ was simply too long, and hadn’t Draco explicitly told Harry this was a bad idea, that Pansy and Blaise could come over another time if he was so keen on meeting them, that they could go shopping next month or the month after that, that Draco needed to accompany him if he went anywhere, that it wasn’t worth the risk—

Draco only realised he’d been tapping his spoon on the rim of his teacup when Blaise reached across the table for the cup and slowly, cautiously pried it from Draco’s iron grip, gently returning it to its hummingbirds-and-roses-embossed saucer, all the while never breaking eye contact.

“Mate,” he said, gaze solemn and penetrating. “ _Relax_.”

And it wasn’t Blaise’s fault Draco was feeling so restless, he knew that, rationally speaking, but that didn’t stop him from snapping, “Thank you for that truly ground-breaking piece of advice, Blaise. I’ll make sure to remember to _relax_ when St. Mungo’s owls me in an hour or five to inform me of Harry’s untimely demise in a hair salon Salazar-knows-where, and that they would’ve told me sooner only they thought it best to first let his actual friends know, then, of course, the Ministry, then the press, then Voldemort’s bloody ghost for all I know, before some intern remembered I’m living with the git and might appreciate a heads-up!”

Draco didn’t mean to shout, truly, he didn’t, but somehow he still ended up doing just that, and by the time he was done, almost all neighbouring tables were staring. 

Perhaps it ought to have told him something that Blaise didn’t even blink at his outburst, that he didn’t glare or get angry, that all he did was heave an especially exasperated sigh and shake his head and say, “Look, I can’t promise you’ll get notified before Granger—because, let’s face it, that woman knows _everything_ —but I’ll make sure Timmy The Intern owls you before Ginny Weasley, yeah? That way you get your dramatic moment at your beloved’s deathbed before his ex-beloved shows up and inevitably steals the spotlight.”

Draco blinked, and just like that all his irritation was gone in a puff of smoke. “I sure hope you didn’t just suggest Ginevra Weasley could ever outshine me.”

Blaise chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good, because otherwise I might have to lodge a formal complaint. St Mungo’s can hardly in good conscience let you treat the ill and disabled if you yourself are delirious.”

Blaise rolled his eyes, but at least he didn’t look moments away from pulling out his own hair anymore. “I refuse to be told off by the likes of you, Mister I’m-so-smitten-I-can’t-even-be-apart-from-my-soulmate-for-five-bloody-minutes-without-going-absolutely-bat-shit-crazy.”

“Zabini!” Draco hissed, eyes wide as he looked around. He didn’t care that they were in muggle Wales, he didn’t care everyone had already gone back to their own business after his little outburst—or, that is, his heart didn’t care, not when it could still thunder on as though it were about to burst out of his chest. “You can’t just _say_ things like that,” he continued in a furious whisper. “Merlin, Blaise, what if someone heard—what if _Harry_ heard—”

“Then all the better,” answered Blaise staunchly, his determination not wavering in the slightest under Draco’s incredulous glare. “No, I’m serious, Draco, this is getting ridiculous. You could not be more obviously in love with him, to the point that, were this not Harry Potter we’re talking about, I’d call it impossible he hasn’t noticed anything yet.”

“I—”

“No. Listen.”

Draco clenched his teeth. He hated when Blaise got like this, all calm and business-like and take-no-shit; it was one of the reasons the man would make such a damn good Healer someday. However, right now, Draco could only glower and wish for once all his friends weren’t such authoritative shits. Not that it’d do him much good.

“Pansy told me about the other day. Draco, I can count on one hand how many people know you like to bake—or I could up until a few days ago, at least. My point is, before Potter, you only ever let yourself trust me, Pans, your mum, and maybe Theo and Greg, depending on the issue. One doesn’t need to be a Healer to know that’s not healthy. But now. _But now_. You might not see the change, but I do, and so does Pansy, and even your mum wrote to me the other day saying you sound lighter in your letters. Happier. That she’s glad you’re finally letting yourself live.” His dark gaze softened, and Blaise continued, “What I’m trying to say is, for Salazar’s sake, Draco, don’t fight this. You’re only sabotaging yourself. If in the end it turns out Potter wants nothing to do with you after all, then fine. So be it. It’ll suck, sure, but at least you’ll know you tried. Keep this up, and you’ll only drive yourself mad.” Blaise paused, and his eyes took on a mischievous twinkle Draco knew all too well from Pansy. “Besides, I sincerely doubt it’ll come to that. Potter cutting you loose, I mean. He seems rather fond of you, too, you know.”

Draco had already opened his mouth to interrupt, but all words evaporated into thin air at that last sentence, and instead he felt himself flush crimson red. He shut his mouth and did his best to regain some semblance of composure, but judging by Blaise’s humongous grin, the effectiveness of his attempt still left much to be desired.

Draco averted his eyes and grumbled a few words under his breath.

“Sorry, what was that?” asked Blaise, suddenly the picture of virtue and innocence.

Draco gritted his teeth. “I _said_ ,” he repeated, “Potter is such a confused, oblivious mess that I doubt he’d realise my feelings for him aren’t just platonic if I whacked him over the head with it. Trust me, it’s a real, legitimate issue of his.” Draco couldn’t help but be reminded of that very morning, when Nic The Bastard had showed up and almost driven Draco to murder before he’d even gotten his morning coffee.

Blaise pulled a face. “Yeaaahhh, maybe don’t whack him over the head? That doesn’t exactly scream ‘I’m in love with you’, tell you the truth.”

Draco shot him a death-glare. “Not the point. The point is, before I know he feels the same or similar, I can’t and I won’t take any unnecessary risks. I’m not going to ruin this. He needs me.”

 _And I need_ him. _More than he can ever know, I need him_.

All the restless tension must have gotten to him after all, or Blaise simply knew him so well after years and years of friendship that he could read the emotions in Draco’s eyes without any further prompting. Because the other man offered him a small, if sad smile, and Draco felt a smidgen of the pressure in his chest loosen.

“Alright. Fine. I understand, and I won’t pester you any further. You need to do what’s best for you, and only you know what that is. If you think now’s not the time to tell him, then don’t, easy as that. But—Draco.” Blaise’s eyes shined like polished onyx. “Please please _please_ don’t make the mistake of waiting too long. Because people don’t stay single forever, especially not when said people have the name and face of Harry Potter. Right now, it’s just you and him. But once Yaxley’s caught and everything goes back to normal, it’ll be you and him _and_ _the rest of the world_. I just don’t want you to regret not acting while you still had the chance.”

Draco could feel his throat grow tight. “I…I won’t. Promise.”

And whatever Blaise saw in his eyes must have been sufficient, for the other man’s lips lifted at the edges, and he gave Draco an approving, perhaps even proud nod. “Good.”

But, fortunately or unfortunately, before either of them could say anything more, the doors of the café burst open and in marched one exceedingly smug-looking Pansy. She didn’t care that people were staring as she swaggered through the café unapologetically, dark, mascaraed eyes on Draco and Blaise’s table and their table alone.

Draco, however, was straining his neck for any sign of Harry, the pit in his stomach growing bigger and tighter and more agitated by the second. Pansy wouldn’t leave him behind alone, would she? No, there was simply no way. But then why wasn’t he here?

When Pansy reached their table, she rolled her eyes at Draco. “Oh, relax, lover boy, your Harry’s coming.” Then a smirk replaced her frown, and her eyes glinted dangerously as she said, “It’ll be worth the wait, trust me.”

At that exact moment the door opened again and in walked Harry.

And for a split second, Draco honest to goodness forgot to breathe.

Harry Potter had always been beautiful, Draco had known this from the very first time he laid eyes on the little boy in Madame Malkin’s. Back then he had been small and too thin and had worn clothes so baggy and tattered it’d been a wonder they’d held together at all. But even then his hair had been the same tousled mess it was today, with golden skin and green eyes to match, green eyes so bright and mesmerizing Draco had only been able to stare for a minute or so before launching into conversation—anything to make this boy his friend. It’d backfired, of course, but the point is, the effect Harry had on people, not just Draco, had been undeniable from the start.

Then Harry had started growing up, and it was true what people said, that you only ever really grew into your features during your teenage years, because Harry Potter was a prime example for it. He’d started off too thin, a bit scrawny, even, and ended up with a fine but definite layer of muscles over the years, both from Quidditch and all the other ungodly things he and his friends had gotten up to. He’d grown in height, too, until he was almost as tall as Draco (that had irked him to no end during Fifth Year), and his face had gone from juvenile and slightly chubby to angular and well-defined.

Yes, he had always been beautiful. But now, right now, as he came walking into the café, looking sheepish but radiant at the same time, he was absolutely stunning.

Pansy had clothed him in a simple, high-necked white shirt and denim jacket, which was a rather brilliant choice on her part, both because the jacket fit him like a glove, and because it was elegant and simple and yet still so very _Harry_. He was wearing a pair of dark trousers, nothing like the worn jeans he usually always sported, but instead far more form-fitting and sophisticated. And although the outfit alone made him look so much more polished, it wasn’t it that captured Draco’s attention.

Because Pansy had indeed taken the words ‘head-to-toe makeover’ to heart; Harry’s hair was shorter, but not by much, just enough that it no longer appeared like he’d just rolled out of bed and instead looked tousled and mussed by choice. Plus, now that his hair was shorter you could actually see his ears.

And due to this, there was no missing the little diamond piercing through the helix of his left ear.

Harry traversed the café with a slight frown on his face, one hand tugging at his sleeve, as though he couldn’t make his mind up whether he liked the outfit change or simply felt extremely uncomfortable.

His frown only deepened when he reached their table, especially when Pansy said gleefully, “There he is, my masterpiece! My ugly-duckling-turned-swan! What do you think, boys, doesn’t he look so much more like a Saviour?”

Blaise immediately copied her gleeful grin. “Oh yes, so much better. Why, he looks positively dashing. I especially love the earring. Don’t you agree, Draco?”

Draco knew he ought to be annoyed with his friend, ought to glare and snap some intelligent yet scathing retort. And the time for that would come, he knew. But right now, right now all he could do was force air into his lungs and wrench his eyes away from a pair of emerald green ones and put on a calm, blasé and totally unaffected expression as he answered, “It’s definitely an improvement from your usual muggle clothes, if you can even call them that. But don’t let it go to your head, Potter—it’s big enough as it is.”

Harry rolled his eyes and plopped down in the chair beside Pansy, and the two of them immediately fell back into conversation, which in all likelihood consisted of Pansy criticising his wardrobe and Harry vehemently defending it. But Draco could only guess, because the thunderous pounding of his heart was so loud it drowned out all else.

Across the table, Blaise was already smiling at him, and although it practically screamed ‘you’re not fooling anybody’ it wasn’t a smirk either, and Draco sighed, wondering for the umpteenth time whether this was just going to be his life now, a tortured half-existence where his soulmate was always _right there_ , just out of reach, and some godly entity above had made it their life’s work to taunt him with what he couldn’t have.

He only half-listened to the conversation after that, which flowed easily from the topic of wardrobe to Hogwarts to which Celestina Warbeck song was the most excruciating, and then in some bizarre turn of events to which BTS album was the best, at which point Draco completely lost the thread. But watching Harry so vehemently defend Love Yourself: Answer (which Draco had never heard of in his life but figured was a nice enough title), eyes shining with that same fire Draco knew and loved, he didn’t mind not being able to contribute anything to the discussion himself.

Eventually, however, Draco felt a pair of eyes on him, and he looked up from where he’d been staring down into his teacup to find none other than Harry Potter studying him, expression oddly unreadable.

“Yes?” Draco asked, hoping the Gryffindor couldn’t hear his racing heart.

Harry blinked, expression shocked, as though he hadn’t even realised he’d been staring. Draco knew that feeling all too well. “Err,” said the Gryffindor, going a bit pink. “Sorry, I. Uhm. It’s nothing.”

Despite his better judgement, Draco was now curious. “I doubt that. What is it? Out with it.”

Harry grimaced slightly, and it made his nose scrunch up adorably. “No, no, really, it doesn’t matter, I was just thinking—”

“A dangerous endeavour.” Draco was grinning now. “But please, by all means, do share your no doubt fascinating thoughts. I’m all ears.”

Harry shot him a glare, but the effect was ruined by the smile tugging steadfastly at his lips. Merlin, Draco thought, they really had come far, hadn’t they?

“ _Fine_.” Harry heaved a leaden sigh, but he didn’t sound annoyed, if anything, he sounded amused. “It’s just…back at the store, Pansy and I were talking.”

Oh no.

“Were you?”

“Yeah. It was my fault, really. Pansy’s the first person I’ve met that genuinely doesn’t care about her soulmark or thinks it’s this super secret, taboo sort of matter not to be discussed _ever_ , by penalty of death. And so I asked her a few questions, because no one’s really explained any of this to me except maybe you, but there’re still so many unknowns, and I—”

“Salazar’s balls, Potter,” groaned Draco. “You did not seriously pester Pansy about her soulmark?”

“I didn’t _pester_ her,” said Harry defensively, but at least he had the common sense to blush darker.

“Sure you didn’t. Point is, there’s a reason people keep their soulmarks private. Don’t you remember what I told you? If you’ve accepted your soulmate-bond, then your magical core and that of your soulmate are one. No one in their right mind is going to go around parading the identity of their soulmate like a fool. They’d be shouting out their vulnerabilities to the world.”

“Damn,” Harry said and grimaced, looking sufficiently cowed. “I didn’t think of that.”

“ _Obviously_.”

“Oh, shut up.” He tried to sound annoyed, but it didn’t quite work, not when his cheeks were flushed so spectacularly. “You know what, forget I ever said anything, it really doesn’t matter.”

“No,” Draco said and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not letting you off the hook, so spit it out.”

Harry opened his mouth as if to argue. But then he shut it. Looked down into his lap. Frowned. And finally, gaze still averted, he mumbled, “Fine. But you’re not going to like this.” He sighed. “It’s about your soulmark.”

Draco froze.

“Before you say anything, she didn’t tell me who it is. She didn’t say anything, really, at least nothing you hadn’t already told me. She was just telling me there are plenty of people like her, people who’ve found their soulmate but don’t end up with them. I said you were one of those people, too, right, and she was surprised at first but then agreed. And we got talking and… Anyway.” Harry hesitated, still blushing, still not looking at Draco. “I just wanted you to know. That. Well. I know we said we wouldn’t talk about it, and I’m not trying to force you to, I dunno, _confide_ in me or anything. It’s a personal issue, I get that. But…” He chewed on his lower lip, and blast Draco’s traitorous eyes, they immediately zeroed in on the motion.

“But you _can_.”

Draco blinked, surprised, gaze snapping back up to Harry’s eyes, which were in turn already boring into his.

“You _can_ talk to me,” the Gryffindor said. “You _can_ confide in me. You don’t have to, but you _can_. We’re friends, Draco. And friends don’t judge. Whatever it is, I won’t fault or belittle you for it. I promise. Not now, not ever.” He gave another one of those crooked smiles, the sort that stretched just a fragment of an inch higher on the right side than on the left, and there was something about the way his eyes twinkled, something in the way his hair fell in clumsy locks over his brow, something in the way his skin glowed golden, even under the watery shine of the muggle lamps, that left no room for doubt in Draco’s mind; if he weren’t already so hopelessly in love, he’d have just fallen for the git all over again.

“Anyway,” said Harry, and blimey, he had no idea, did he, what havoc he had wreaked upon Draco’s perfectly satisfactory life. And all with a crooked smile and a pair of twinkling emerald eyes. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

Draco, for his part, tried his best to reply. Several times, even. He remained silent for so long Harry’s face twisted back into a concerned frown, forehead creasing with worried little wrinkles.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, should I?” he said, and then he was biting his lower lip again, and if Draco’s mind hadn’t already stopped functioning that would’ve done it. “Forget it, I didn’t mean to pry, it doesn’t matter anyway, I—”

“Harry.”

Harry looked up, and his eyebrows were knitted together over his eyes, eyes that shone with genuine worry. And Draco realised something, something he’d assumed beforehand, of course, something he’d hoped was true but had never dared get his hopes up.

Except now it was obvious, and it made him so happy it was almost impossible not to break out into a colossal grin right then and there. Because Harry—oblivious, quick-tempered, fierce, brilliant, wonderful Harry—truly, genuinely _cared_ about him, about Draco, about his _friend_.

“Thank you.”

Harry looked at him, stunned. “I— _what_?”

Draco allowed himself a small smile. “You heard me correctly, Potter—thank you. I might just take you up on that offer someday soon.”

A wide, if initially hesitant smile broke across Harry’s face as well. “I…okay. Great. Sounds like a plan.”

Draco nodded, still smiling. “Sounds like a plan.”

And perhaps it was Blaise’s words from earlier still echoing through his mind, or Pansy’s remark about soulmates and her continuous stream of knowing looks, or just the knowledge that Harry cared about him, about Draco Malfoy, cared and liked and maybe even needed him. Whatever it was, Draco made up his mind that very moment, made up his mind and made himself a promise, the same promise he’d given Blaise less than an hour before.

Yes, Blaise had been right, it wasn’t just them, it was them and the rest of the world, and there were so, so, _so_ many people out there like Dominic Hayes or Ginevra Weasley, just waiting for the chance to make the famous Harry Potter their own. After all, who wouldn’t want him? Who wouldn’t want the Boy Who Lived Twice, the Vanquisher of Voldemort, the Saviour of the Wizarding World?

But Draco didn’t want the Chosen One, he didn’t want the Saviour, the celebrity everyone made the great Harry Potter out to be—he just wanted Harry. Harry, who was loud and brash and oblivious and ignorant, who was reckless and stupid, who was kind and compassionate and attentive and good.

Harry, who was _enough_.

And maybe Harry wouldn’t want him, maybe he wouldn’t love him back, maybe he’d decide their friendship wasn’t worth it after all, not when Draco wanted _more_. If that happened, Draco would have to live with it. If that ended up being Harry’s choice, then Draco would accept it and try his best to live a life without him.

But maybe Harry _would_ want him.

And it was that chance, that tiny, slim possibility, that Draco promised himself he would fight for, because this was too important to give up on, _Harry_ was too important to give up on.

 _They_ were too important to give up on.

And when the conversation started up again, Draco let himself partake in it, let himself laugh and joke and grin with his friends, let himself enjoy just being with them, being with _him_.

Because, honestly, that was enough.


	14. Malfoy the Menace and Potter the Pest (and Yaxley the Psychotic Nutso)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back to another chapter of Harry The Oblivious Moron vs. Draco The Love-Sick Puppy! I hope you're all doing well and not too stressed and are looking forward to the holidays as much as I am.  
> Also, I asked myself the other day how long this story's going to be, and it turns out I have no idea. So yeah. Unfortunately, I'm much more of a pantser than a planner. Sorry!  
> Anywho, enjoy Chapter 14, it's quite something!

After about five minutes of Draco tapping his foot, hands clasped tightly around his steaming mug of coffee (three sugars and two dollops of cream—not that Harry had memorised it or anything), grey eyes fixed on the floor, on the carpet, on the red wall behind Harry’s head—everywhere, really, but _Harry_ —the Gryffindor finally couldn’t take it anymore.

Harry set down his own mug of coffee, and the sound made the Slytherin wince, which in turn only deepened Harry’s frown.

“Okay, that’s it. Tell me what’s going on.”

Draco pulled a face, but, surprisingly, none of the insults Harry had come to expect came flying. Instead, the blond simply sighed. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Come off it, clearly _something’s_ up. You’ve barely said a word this morning, plus you were up before me, which really is a phenomenon in itself.” _And you look tired,_ Harry added in his mind. _Like you didn’t sleep a wink_.

“You’re supposed to protect me, right? And you can hardly do that if you’re distracted. So, spill.” When Draco remained silent, Harry grinned, and added, “I distinctly remember you promising me only yesterday that you’d talk to me more. So, here’s your chance. Talk.”

Draco’s eyes finally interlocked with his, and although the unspoken words ‘you’re a moron’ coated his expression as thick as a like layer of varnish, Harry was also glad to see at least a bit of the tension in his posture seep away.

“For a Gryffindor, you’re incredibly conniving at times, you know that?”

Harry only smiled wider, ignoring the jab, knowing it’d only rile the Slytherin up more. “Fine, if you won’t tell me, I reckon I’ll just have to guess. Knowing you, it’s probably something petty. Is it that Pansy didn’t let you come clothes-shopping with us yesterday? Because if so, I should tell you all you missed were a couple dozen more insults, a handful of intimidatory remarks, and a death-threat or two. Nothing out of the ordinary.” He grinned. “Or is it that I’m cooler than you now?”

This—finally—elicited a real reaction. “You? Cooler than me?” The Slytherin scoffed, eyes incredulous and disgusted and haughty, and Harry could only grin wider. “You _wish_ , Potter.”

Harry crossed his arms and leaned against the fridge, eyeing the blond sitting across the kitchen counter with unconcealed amusement. “Hate to be the one to break it to you, Malfoy, but it’s a fact. You see, I have an _earring_ now. You don’t. Ergo, I’m cooler than you.” He cocked his head to the side. “I thought you said you liked it yesterday? The earring, I mean.”

And, okay, Harry probably shouldn’t take so much pleasure in watching Draco splutter, in watching the Slytherin’s usually so composed, pale face go beetroot red, poise and serenity forgotten. But he did. Sue him.

“I—” Draco said, then shook his head, evidently trying to force his face back into apathy. He failed. “You’re such an imbecile, Potter, I hope you know that—”

“Uh-huh,” Harry said, and oh, this was simply _hilarious_. “What, changed your mind already? You wound me, Draco, you really do.”

“I never said I—”

“No, you did. I remember it like it was yesterday. Which, coincidentally, it was.”

Draco scowled down into his coffee. “Fucking prat,” he grumbled, but Harry’s smile—beam, now, really—couldn’t be dimmed.

He pointed up at his left ear and the diamond therein and grinned even wider when Draco’s eyes followed the direction of his finger, settling on the diamond before he even realised what he was doing, and then promptly looked away again as though burned, all the while scowling.

“It’s a rock on a needle in your ear,” Draco huffed. “Hardly anything special. Plus, if it’s the diamond you’re proud of, I’ll have you know my mother has rings with gems ten times the size, not to mention a hundred times the value.” His tone was brusque. But his cheeks were pink.

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes, directing his attention back to the pancakes he was currently making. He flipped them over with the spatula, which Draco had been absolutely appalled to see when Harry had first whipped it out—after all, why use another _muggle thing_ when you could use your wand?

Harry had made it a point after that to use no magic whatsoever in the preparation of the meal.

“It always has to be a competition with you, doesn’t it?”

“If it _were_ a competition, I’d win it.”

Harry snorted and flipped another pancake. “My God, why I put up with you is beyond me. You’re a menace, Malfoy.”

Draco scoffed. “This coming from Harry sodding Potter. If I’m a menace, you’re a bloody pest.” But the next time Harry looked up again—furtively and through the corner of his eye, so Draco wouldn’t notice—there was a soft grin playing across the Slytherin’s face as he looked down into his mug.

Something twisted in Harry’s gut, something he neither could nor particularly wanted to place. So instead he said merrily, “Malfoy the Menace and Potter the Pest. Gotta admit, that has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” He flipped another pancake, this time throwing it up into the air and catching it again with the spatula, whooping when it landed safely back in the pan.

Draco, however, he noticed, didn’t join in. Not that Harry’d really expected him to. No, Harry’s expectations had gone more along the lines of a tongue-lashing or two due to ‘useless, childish Gryffindor shenanigans’ or something similar, followed by a few more insults, spoken in harsh tones but with that undertone, the one that always told Harry without doubt that the Slytherin didn’t mean whatever sharp rebuke had just come out of his mouth, the one that made him grin like a loon every time because, again, Draco didn’t actually hate him anymore. On the contrary—they were _friends_. Sometimes Harry still couldn’t quite believe it.

But the insults never came, and when Harry glanced over his shoulder, he nearly dropped his spatula.

Because Draco was staring at him, not with irritation, or anger, or disgust, or disdain, or any of the emotions Harry had gotten so used to seeing on his pale, angular face. Instead.

Well.

Instead, Harry was rather certain that was warmth in the Slytherin’s gaze. And a gentleness he’d only gotten to see a handful of times, when Draco was laughing and smiling and at his most vulnerable.

Warmth, and gentleness—and affection.

Harry stood frozen, unsure and, quite frankly, unable to move, to react. Because surely if he said something, that’d ruin this, right? Whatever _this_ was.

He needn’t have worried however, because at that moment Draco himself seemed to realise what exactly he was doing—staring at Harry Potter with _affection_ , what alternate dimension was this—and immediately looked to the floor with an especially laboured harrumph, expression tortured, like he couldn’t quite riddle out himself what the fuck had just happened.

Harry blinked, and was about to turn back to his pancakes.

But then Draco spoke again. “Harry? Can I—can I ask you something?”

Harry’s eyebrows shot upwards. First smiling at Harry, then politely asking to talk to him, being nice and sincere and vulnerable—who was this person across of him and what had they done with Draco?

But he didn’t ask that, because Draco looked genuinely nervous, skin a shade paler than usual, long fingers clutching the coffee mug like a lifeline, eyes trained resolutely on the kitchen counter. And Harry’s heart thawed a bit and he said sincerely, “Of course you can, Draco. I already told you: anything you want to talk about, anything at all, I won’t judge.”

Draco, however, didn’t stop squirming in his seat. If anything, he looked even more nervous.

The blond cleared his throat, and then he said slowly, tentatively, “Right then. Potter. _Harry_. In the past week, we’ve become rather good friends, wouldn’t you say? I mean, obviously not best friends or anything, because I know that’s Granger and Weasley for you, and I have Pansy and Blaise, and that’s fine. Cool. Great, really. But…friends. You and I.” He exhaled through his nose, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen the Slytherin so flustered. It was…unnerving, to say the least. “What I’m trying to say is we’ve come rather far from our Hogwarts rivalry. I don’t hate you anymore, and I’m almost certain the feeling’s mutual. As a matter of fact, I quite like you. You’re… Hmm.”

Harry could only gape as the blond cleared his throat again, opened his mouth, closed it again, and went as red as the wallpaper behind Harry’s head.

What. _The fuck_. Was going on.

“Draco—” Harry began hesitantly, tone cautious.

But the Slytherin shook his head decisively, sending a lock of silver-blond tumbling onto his forehead. “No. Listen.” A pause. “Please.”

Be it the ‘please’ at the end or the unaccustomed gentleness of Draco’s tone—Harry shut up immediately.

“I know we’ve only really been on friendly terms for a week now,” he continued. “But, to be perfectly honest, it seems a lot longer to me. I’m…very thankful we are where we are right now. Not that Yaxley’s actively trying to murder you, of course. But…that we can be friends. I cherish that a lot.”

Somewhere throughout the speech (because that’s what this was, a _speech_ , and Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether Draco had planned it out beforehand—good God, had he stayed up all night preparing it? Was that why he looked so exhausted?) his heart had begun to beat faster and faster, and now it was so loud Harry truly would not be shocked if Draco could hear it. He stared at the Slytherin, who still sat there across the kitchen counter, back straight, green jumper immaculate, hair looking perfect as ever. Only his face betrayed him, his face and his tone and his words, and the fact that he still wouldn’t look at Harry.

“It’s because I cherish it that I’ve had such a hard time telling you what I’m about to say. I don’t want to ruin this—that’s the last thing I want—so this considerably more complicated than I might like.” Draco took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Exhaled. And when those silver eyes opened again, they were drilling into Harry’s.

“But, honestly, fuck it,” said the Slytherin, voice hoarse. “Here goes nothing. Harry, you should know, I’m—”

And at that moment, the Floo sounded, and a red-haired, gangly figure burst into the flat, coughing violently.

Harry honestly thought Draco might murder Ron when the redhead came stumbling into the kitchen, that’s how livid the Slytherin looked. But before any such homicidal leanings could be acted upon, Ron exclaimed, “Yaxley’s been caught!”

Just like that, speeches and racing hearts dropped from the forefront of Harry’s mind.

Across the kitchen, Draco had already jumped up, anger gone, replaced instead by a determination so fierce it radiated from him like waves of heat.

“Where.”

Ron looked at Draco, as though only now noticing his presence, and immediately his eyebrows lifted, whether due to the Slytherin’s casual clothing (a green jumper and trousers, although the trousers were still categorically posh) or just in simple shock of seeing Draco Malfoy sitting at Harry’s kitchen counter with a mug of coffee. And Harry loved his best mate, really, he did, but now was decidedly _not the time_.

So he said, “Where’re they keeping him now? They do have him in custody, right?”

Ron blinked and although his gaze still remained on Draco for a split-second longer, he then turned his attention back to Harry, and nodded. “Sure do. They caught him somewhere on the outskirts of London, in this hovel of an apartment. Apparently the owner died back in the war, and Yaxley knew this and decided he’d set up camp there. Too bad Robards’s had Aurors scoring every inch of the city for days now. He put up a fight, he did, but we outnumbered him twenty-to-one.” Ron looked proud, but Draco didn’t seem in the least impressed.

“Yes, yes, good on you, congratulations for doing your job,” the Slytherin snapped. “But _where is he_? Did they already lock him up in Azkaban? Or is he at the Ministry, being interrogated?”

Ron frowned but nodded. “Yeah, that. They’ve got the best inquisitors in the force working on him, as we speak.”

And before Harry could so much as open his mouth, Draco was out the kitchen door, and less than ten seconds later flames could be heard roaring to life, spluttering and hissing, and the Slytherin’s voice rung out cold and clear, “Ministry of Magic!”

The flames reared up one last time before dying down completely, and silence engulfed the flat again, and Harry knew if he went into the living room now, Draco would be long gone.

Something twisted in Harry’s gut.

“Right then,” said Ron, and Harry had completely forgotten his best friend was there in the kitchen as well. The redhead was looking out the kitchen door into the living room, a small frown tugging at his lips. He turned to Harry. “He’s an odd fellow, isn’t he?”

Harry wanted to laugh. What came out instead, however, was more of a smothered choke, and Ron gave him an alarmed look.

But Harry’s mind was elsewhere, mainly on getting to the Ministry as fast as possible, to keep Draco from doing or saying something stupid. Because although that silver fire of his made Harry’s heart beat faster every time, although Harry had half a mind himself to go marching into wherever they were holding Yaxley and obliterate the man with his bare hands for what he’d done, both to Harry and to all the innocents during the war and to _Draco_ —he also knew it would only end badly.

And although, technically speaking, Draco was the one doing the protecting, Harry couldn’t help but feel oddly obligated to offer the blond, silver-eyed Slytherin the same courtesy.

He was already halfway across the kitchen when he glanced over his shoulder and called out to a still dumbfounded-looking Ron, “You coming?”

The redhead blinked, and Harry could tell there would be a lot of explaining and recapping in his imminent future—but now, now he had to get to Ministry first.

And so Harry didn’t wait for Ron to catch up before stepping into the fire place and throwing down his own handful of Floo Powder.

“Ministry of Magic!”

* * *

Draco glared through the glass at the gaunt, hollow-looking figure sitting behind the iron desk, arms all the while folded tightly across his chest.

For what it was worth, Yaxley looked horrible. Like he’d recently risen from the dead and hadn’t quite gotten the hang of living yet. His face was sunken, nothing but pale, tattered sandpaper stretched taut across the man’s skull. The dark emptiness of his eyes made them look like two black holes, and his hair, once similar in colour to Draco’s or Lucius’, was now a thicket of knotted, wiry white.

Draco had thought he’d take pleasure in the man’s apparent misery. He’d been sure he’d feel triumphant, smug, glad the Death Eater was doing as wretchedly as he ought to be, glad he was suffering like he’d made so many suffer.

But all Draco could feel as he watched the broken shell of a human being stare at his interrogator, a small, slippery smile snaking across his face, pulling at it in truly unnatural ways, was hatred. A hatred so deep-rooted and intense it almost equalled what he’d felt for Voldemort in those last months, what he felt even now at times when he thought of his father and all he’d done to their family.

Draco didn’t like violence, never had, never would, especially not after all he’d seen first-hand during the war. He didn’t like hurting people and he certainly didn’t like having to kill. It was one of the only qualms he’d had about becoming an Auror—he still had nightmares sometimes, even three years later, of screaming and crying and begging echoing through the Manor’s halls, of Bellatrix’s manic cackling or Voldemort’s cold laugh before a flash of green.

So, no, Draco was not a brutal man—but at that moment, all he wanted to do was break through the magic barriers keeping Yaxley caged in and the rest of them sealed out, and wring the man’s neck with his bare hands.

To his right, Harry shifted on his feet, knuckles white from where his hands clutched the back of the iron chair he was supposed to be sitting on. Draco’s heart twisted at the sight, at the frown set deep into Harry’s usually so golden skin, now reduced to a grey sort of pallor that made his eyes duller, less emerald and more mossy green. He was still beautiful, of course—Draco doubted anything could ever change that. But the nervousness coating his features was unmistakable, and it made Draco sick, because this was Harry Potter, for fuck’s sake, he didn’t _get_ anxious!

Somewhere in the room Draco knew Weasley was hanging around as well, and Robards and another nameless Auror there to watch the proceedings. But all Draco could see was Harry, and Harry’s distress, and it made him seethe with disgust and anger and hatred for Yaxley, who had done this.

“I’ll ask again,” a sharp voice cut through the silence—Yaxley’s interrogator, Ren Takeuchi. “Who are you working with? We know you purchased Acturin from a Philomena Craigs in Knockturn Alley. Were you two in contact? Did she supply you with any other poisons or assist you in any other way?”

Draco clenched his jaw. Salazar, they were going about this all wrong. Philomena Craigs was an extremist when it came to blood purity, sure, but she’d stayed well away from Voldemort and his Death Eaters during both of the two wars—why the hell would she go out of her way to willingly assist Yaxley now? She was all bark, no bite. Anyone in their right mind could see that!

Draco had already tried multiple times to get into that room. To be the one sitting across from Yaxley, interrogating him. But Robards had shot him down immediately— _Takeuchi’s the expert here, Draco, they know what they’re doing, Draco, let them do their job, Draco, you’re too emotionally invested in this anyway, Draco_.

Yes, he fucking was! All the more reason to be the one to destroy Yaxley once and for all!

And, just like Draco knew he would, Yaxley only smiled. “You’re looking at this all wrong, I’m afraid.”

Takeuchi paused. “Is that so?”

Yaxley simply nodded, lips quirking, as though he knew something the rest of them did not and was basking in the knowledge. “Yes.”

It was likely just a lie, Draco knew that—a trick, just a way for Yaxley to toy with them, to get them to believe he had some sort of plan, some sort of secret weapon yet to be unleashed. Draco knew this.

And yet, damn it all to hell, it was working.

“Then, please,” Takeuchi said, and although they were facing Yaxley and not the glass, their scowl was audible through their tone, “enlighten us. How should we be looking at this?”

Yaxley tutted. “I can’t just go spoiling everything, now can I? Where’s the fun in that? No, I think I’ll let you figure it out yourself, and by the time dear Mister Potter meets his untimely demise, you’ll know what I meant.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Harry stiffen, and his own anger doubled, tripled, until he was almost shaking with it, with disgust, with hate, for the man that had tried to kill Harry multiple times and now had the nerve to sit there and smile.

“You should know you’re already facing three lifetime sentences in Azkaban, Mr. Yaxley,” said Takeuchi, tone calm. Draco knew it was important they keep their calm, knew he should be trying the same, but he couldn’t help but feel resentment towards the interrogator for it—how the fuck could one stay calm at a time like this? Yaxley had just _openly threatened Harry’s life_ , for Salazar’s sake! “It’s in your best interest to comply to our questions. Death threats are not going to help.”

“Oh, please,” Yaxley said, bored, disinterested, as though the words didn’t so much as daunt him. “You said it yourself: I’m going to be incarcerated for life anyway. It hardly matters whether or not I help you do your job now. If anything, really, refusing to comply is my last hurrah of sorts.”

“But you openly admit you have an accomplice? Someone who’ll go after Mr. Potter once you no longer can?”

Salazar, the nonchalance with which they spoke about it, about _Harry’s death_ , made Draco want to punch something—preferably a face, preferably Yaxley’s. But he simply clenched his fists at his sides and glowered through the glass, as though it weren’t magically charmed and Yaxley could actually see how much Draco hated him.

The Death Eater laughed, a cold, mirthless, broken sort of sound, like walking on shards of broken glass. “Of course I do. Frankly, how it took you lot so long to figure out is beyond me.”

“And I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give them up? If you don’t do so now, I feel obligated to remind you that we do have other, far less pleasant means of extracting information.”

Takeuchi was referring to the second round of questioning that would be performed after this one, and the third and the fourth and so on and so on, until they either got what they wanted or the prisoner was too much of a broken, sobbing mess to articulate their thoughts in a manner that was comprehensive enough to be submitted as a confession. Draco knew this, for he himself had once been subject to the whole charade, three years ago.

Not that he’d had anything worthwhile to confess.

“And why ever would I do that?” Yaxley replied, tone sickly-sweet. “After all, I have them to thank for being allowed to execute my plan in the first place; they broke me out of that hellhole you call a prison.” He laughed again. “Good luck trying to find them.”

There was a moment of tense silence, and Draco could feel his chest tighten painfully, whether due to fear or anger or hate, perhaps all three.

“They’re the one responsible for the Azkaban breakout four months ago?” Takeuchi asked.

Yaxley smirked, exposing a row of yellowing, partially missing teeth. “Of course. And there’s more where that came from. They’re delightfully diabolical, you should know.”

“And were there any other escaped convicts tied into this unknown person’s plans? Were you in contact with any of your former associates?”

“Are you asking whether there’re any more Death Eater-assassins you need to be worried about?” Yaxley paused for a long moment and leaned back in his iron chair, evidently enjoying the tension. “No, not that I know of. But who knows what might happen in the future.”

And then he looked over Takeuchi’s head, at the glass wall separating him and Takeuchi from Draco and Harry. The glass wall inlaid with so many enchantments and spells it should be absolutely impossible for him to see.

And he grinned.

“Best of luck, Mr. Potter. You’ll need it.”

Even if Draco weren’t so hyperaware of Harry at all times, the way the Gryffindor went completely still was unmissable. At the back of the room, Robards and the unnamed Auror exchanged a stony look and then left the room without another word, slamming the door shut behind them.

And then it was just Draco, Harry and Weasley in the one room, and Takeuchi and _Yaxley_ in the other, and Draco felt a surge of such intense anger he could nearly feel his magic pushing and shoving inside him to get loose, squirming and writhing under his skin.

He looked once more at Yaxley, who was still grinning, and then at Harry—Harry, who was white as a sheet, whose eyes were wider than usual, whose expression was drawn. Draco gritted his teeth.

With one large stride he was at Harry’s side, and before the Gryffindor could so much as open his mouth to protest, Draco was clutching his forearm and dragging him out the room.

Thankfully, Harry hardly resisted at all, and Draco was almost at the door when Weasley let out a startled yelp. “Hey! What do you think you’re doi—”

Draco whirled around, fixing Weasley with a glare borne of all his combined anger and hatred and disgust for Yaxley, and the redhead immediately shrunk back. Draco, however, didn’t feel an ounce of satisfaction.

“I’ve always known you have the tactfulness of a blundering buffoon, Weasley,” he hissed, “but you spent all those years making sure everyone knows Harry’s your best friend—do at least try to act like it now, will you?”

Weasley gaped, and it took all Draco’s self-restraint to keep from punching him then and there. “People have been trying to murder Harry for ages now, Malfoy, he’s used to i—”

Draco growled—honest-to-Merlin _growled_. “I sure hope you weren’t about to say ‘he’s used it’, because that’s tactless even for your standards, Weasley. You don’t just ‘get used to’ people trying to kill you. Now move, or so help me Salazar, I will move you.”

Weasley gaped at him, and Draco only dimly realised he must look a tad deranged; he was still wearing the same woolly jumper the remaining house elves back at the Manor had knit him for Christmas the year before, hair uncombed and unstyled (in his defence, Draco hadn’t exactly expected to be going out), and he didn’t need a mirror to know his scowl must be something straight out of a nightmare. But he couldn’t find it in him to care. If his catastrophe of an appearance brought his message across to Weasley, if it showed how dead-serious he was, that he’d do whatever it took and more to protect Harry—then all the better.

“I—” began Weasley, and Draco thought the redhead might honestly put up a fight. Fucking Gryffindors. But then he paused, and, expression tortured, glanced over at Harry. Draco’s gaze followed.

Harry was still unnaturally pale, and it was almost like someone had gone and dimmed his very essence, dimmed what was usually such a radiant glow until it was nothing but watery murkiness. But his eyes, his eyes had regained their usual brilliance, and at that moment they focused on Draco.

Harry smiled at him, a small, sad, but grateful smile, and Draco’s anger evaporated into nothingness.

The Gryffindor turned to Weasley, and he smiled at him as well. And call him jealous or spiteful or cruel, but Draco took no small pleasure in seeing that smile become tighter, smaller, less genuine when directed at Weasley.

“It’s okay. Just…let me know if something important happens, yeah?”

Weasley was still frowning, and he shot Draco a barely concealed look of wariness. But then he sighed and nodded. “Fine. But Mione’ll want to talk to you, you know. Just warning you.”

Harry gave his friend an appreciative nod. “Sure thing. Thanks, mate.”

And then he gripped Draco’s wrist—his right wrist—and pulled him out of the room.

They walked in silence down the hallway, nodding in polite greeting whenever they passed a colleague—or, that is, Harry nodded in polite greeting whenever they passed a colleague. Draco was still too stunned Harry was actually touching him, holding him so tight one might think the Gryffindor was afraid Draco would leave otherwise. Which was, of course, absolutely ridiculous.

Draco would sooner cut off his own hand than leave Harry.

They walked until they came across an empty interrogation room, and Harry entered without another word, leaving Draco no choice but to follow. He did, and he closed the door behind him, all the while watching Harry as he paced the length of the room, raking his fingers through his hair until his dark locks were even more of a mess than normally.

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Then he said, gently, cautiously, “Are you alright?”

Harry stopped pacing and looked up at Draco, and the sheer amount of crushing emotion in his green eyes made Draco’s heart twist. “I…,” said the Gryffindor, then hesitated. He shook his head, sending dark curls tumbling into his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Draco didn’t know how to answer. He simply nodded. “I dare say that’s understandable.”

This elicited a small, if slightly hysterical laugh from Harry. But Draco figured it was better than the alternative, better than the unnatural broken look he’d sported for a few moments back in the interviewing room. “No pep talk, then? No ‘come now, Harry, things aren’t that bad, stop acting so pessimistic’?”

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “Is that what you want me to say?”

Harry paused, and he looked so distressed Draco just wanted to brave the little space between them and wrap him up in a hug. “No. Yes.” Harry sighed, a long, weary sound. “I don’t know. I guess I just want it to be over? I’m not sure why it’s hitting me now, all of a sudden. But I hate this. The war’s been over for years now, and yet I’m still being chased by Voldemort’s sycophants.”

Draco’s chest tightened. “He could be bluffing. Maybe there is no accomplice, and Yaxley just said that to create further panic. His last hurrah, as he said.”

Harry looked up, directly at Draco, and there was no accusation in his gaze, no anger or blame, yet Draco felt like recoiling. The sheer rawness in those emerald eyes was so intense it made him dizzy.

“Do you believe that?”

And, damn it, Draco wanted to say he did. He wanted to reassure Harry, tell him everything would be fine and that there was no need to worry. After all, Harry deserved that, didn’t he? He was right—after all the years of running from Voldemort, of living under the constant fear of dying, he deserved a fucking break.

But Draco also couldn’t lie, not to Harry. Not ever to Harry.

“No.”

Harry smiled, but it was a smile of pure wretchedness, of sad understanding. “Thought so.”

They were silent for a long moment, and Draco watched Harry sigh and run his fingers through his hair again and again. It was a painful sight, seeing the usually so optimistic Gryffindor so down.

And perhaps it was due to this or simply because the stress had finally gotten to Draco and peeled away one layer too many of his self-discipline, so meticulously crafted through years and years of self-imposed constraint. Whatever it was, Draco found himself once again feeling the urge to hold Harry tight, to cling to him and never let go.

Only this time, he didn’t fight it.

He marched across the room to where Harry was leaning against the wall, head in hands, and he wrapped his arms around him in a hug. Harry started, surprised, but Draco didn’t let go, and thankfully, Harry didn’t shove him away either. A second passed, and then Harry’s arms settled around Draco’s back as well.

“I’m sorry, I can’t say things aren’t that bad,” Draco whispered, and standing there, so close, the scent of his soulmate filled his nose, like sandalwood and cinnamon and something else, something citrusy, all combined into one, warm and wonderful and so very Harry. “I can’t say everything will be fine. But you’ll manage, understand?” He pulled away, just enough so that he could look his Gryffindor in the eyes. “You’ll manage just fine, because you’re Harry bloody Potter, and that’s what you do—you endure.”

Harry gave a little laugh, and his eyes danced and sparkled, and the voice telling Draco they were standing too close, that there was no strictly-platonic explanation for this he could conjure up later when Harry—normal, non-fear-stricken Harry—went over the situation in his head and realised that perhaps friends didn’t stand this close, that perhaps friends didn’t stare at you all the time as though you were the sun—that voice was drowned out by the sheer brilliance of those eyes.

“You’re making me sound like a cockroach.”

Draco chuckled lightly. “Aren’t you, though? There’ve been so many people after you these past nine years that, frankly, I see no other explanation for how you’re still alive.”

“So I’m a cockroach now.”

“Afraid so.”

“Harry Roacher. Cockroach Potter. Does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“That…was absolutely horrible.” Draco shook his head, trying to look aghast, but failing miserably because he couldn’t stop laughing. But it was worth it to see Harry’ grin, restored back to its normal intensity. “Shame on you, Potter.”

Harry chuckled, and an ebony lock of hair fell into his eyes, and not for the first time or the last, Draco strongly suspected, he was hit with the overwhelming urge to brush it away. To twirl it around his finger and then tuck it behind Harry’s ear. To cup his jaw. And maybe, just maybe…

The door flew open, and Draco launched himself backwards so fast he very nearly tripped over his own feet. Thankfully, however, he managed to keep at least a part of his dignity intact, and he turned to find none other than Ronald fucking Weasley standing in the doorway, looking at the same time bewildered and startled and distrustful as he regarded them. Or, rather, as he regarded Draco.

Fortunately, however, he didn’t comment, instead fixing his attention on Harry, who Draco tried very, very hard not to look at in fear of what he might find there. Would Harry be angry? Disgusted? Or simply as oblivious as always, ignorant of what had been going on in Draco’s head until a few seconds ago? Of what could have very well just happened?

Draco didn’t know which option he hated more.

“Sorry,” said Weasley, sounding a bit dazed. Merlin and Morgana, had _Weasley_ figured it out?! “I was just. Uhm. Harry. You said to notify you when something happened? Yaxley just told Takeuchi where to find the rest of his poisons. Robards’ sending a squad to check it out as we speak. I’d ask if you want to come, but…”

Draco didn’t know much, but he did know one thing: Ronald Weasley was the biggest, most insufferable arsehole in the world.

“But that would be utterly obtuse and insensitive and a very you sort of thing to say,” Draco finished for him, and Weasley sent him a glare.

Harry sighed, but his smile was audible in his tone, and it gave Draco hope, because maybe Harry wasn’t mad after all? Maybe he had realised what was about to happen? And maybe, just maybe, if Weasley hadn’t burst in, he’d have let Draco kiss him…?

No.

Draco didn’t dare finish that line of thought. Just _no_. He would not raise false hopes, and he would not read into this, and he would not indulge in delusions. Because that’s all they were—delusions, and fantasies, and that was quite enough of that.

“Unless you have some incredibly pressing, time-sensitive assignment for us, Weasley, we’d best be going now,” Draco said, and he was secretly proud at how unaffected his tone sounded, as though he weren’t inwardly reeling. “It’s barely morning yet, and I still haven’t gotten my morning coffee.”

“You and your morning coffee,” he heard Harry mutter, but thankfully neither him nor Weasley argued as Draco led the way out of the interrogation room, heart a beating, blustering mess.

~~~

When they returned to the flat, the pancakes were burnt.


	15. we all crash and burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to say I'm sorry. Both to you my lovely readers, and to my baby Draco, because.  
> Well.  
> You'll see.  
> (Sorry.)

Draco glared at Yaxley, who simply smiled back.

It was astonishing, really, how much the mere sight of the man’s gaunt, twisted face made Draco’s blood broil, his chest prickle with something sharp and venomous, his fists ache and itch just to lift up and collide with the side of Yaxley’s jaw, to hear that sickening crunch and wipe that revolting fucking smile off his face.

Anger had so many different faucets, so many different faces. There were more ways to hurt someone than one could possibly count, more than a million ways to make a person pay. Draco knew that all too well, knew it and had experienced it himself.

So how was it then that, while Yaxley was the one chained up, caged in a room of metal and iron and magic, a man who’d spend the rest of his life in Azkaban with no one and nothing but Dementors to keep him company—how was it that Draco was the one who felt exposed?

“Are you going to ask me your question, Draco?” Yaxley asked, and the mere sound of his voice, the oily, rustling hiss of it, the smile coating his tone thicker even than the chill—well, it made Draco want to do something very, very stupid.

Draco was silent for a long moment. So long, in fact, he reached the mental count of two hundred before he spoke again, because Draco knew himself well enough after twenty years that he could say with absolute certainty any actions taken before that point would not end well for either of them.

Finally, he gritted his teeth and hissed, “No point, is there?”

Yaxley cocked his head to the side and, _Merlin_ , the oiliness of his smile had Draco close to retching.

“I’m curious as to why you would say that.”

Draco barked an entirely mirthless laugh, and it echoed off the cold, bare walls of the interrogation room. “Are you, now? So you didn’t point-blank refuse to give up your accomplice yesterday, because, and I quote, it’s ‘simply too much fun watching us squirm’? Was that your evil twin who said that? _Eviller_ , I mean.”

Yaxley simply sat there with that slippery smile of his and watched Draco, and as much as Draco wanted to hit the man, wanted to see him bleed, he also wanted nothing more than to _leave_. To Apparate back home, to the flat, to _Harry_ , who Draco had left in the care of Granger and Weasley for the hour he’d be here dealing with Yaxley. To grab his soulmate and take him somewhere none of this shite could reach them, where no one could find them or hurt them or want something from them, no deranged Death Eaters, no overprotective Aurors, no press, no one at all.

Just Draco and Harry, as it should be.

Yaxley didn’t move, didn’t blink, and were it not for the fact that he knew so much better, Draco might have thought the man dead where he sat. Oh, wouldn’t that be a hilarious turn of events. All the effort they’d put into finding the man, catching him, detaining him so he could spend the rest of his days in Azkaban—and a poorly-timed heart attack was all it’d take to undo.

Or settle things once and for all, depending on one’s standpoint.

But then Yaxley spoke, and Draco’s daydreaming was cut short. “No, you’re right, I don’t plan on helping you. Not on that front, certainly. It really is such fun watching you lot struggle. So very worried about your Saviour, aren’t you. It’s delightfully entertaining.”

The way his black eyes glinted, boring into Draco like they always did, so hollow and empty and yet filled to the brim with anger, with hate, with _evil_ , Draco had no idea whether with ‘you’ the Death Eater meant the Auror department as a whole. Or just him. Just Draco.

“But,” said Yaxley, “despite your undeniable dedication to your job, Draco, I do not believe that’d be your question.”

For the first time since entering the cell, Draco momentarily forgot his hatred for the man in front of him. It slipped for the briefest of moments, replaced instead by pure, unadulterated shock.

“I—” he said, blinking, trying to reel himself back in, to calm down, to _think_ , bloody hell. Eventually, he managed to stop. Pause. Breathe. “I have no idea what it is you’re insinuating.”

“Don’t you?” It was a question, yet not, and not for the first time nor the last, Draco felt such an intense surge of frustration it made him clench his jaw, so hard it popped.

“No,” he gritted out. “No, I don’t. And, frankly, I’m in no mood for your mind games right now, so either tell me what you’re so clearly itching to say or do us both a favour and shut up.”

Yaxley wasn’t fazed. He clicked his tongue, watching Draco with what could only be described as amusement. “You know, you surprise me, Draco. Honestly, you do. I’ve never been one to be easily nonplussed, and I certainly never thought you’d be the one to do it, and yet, you’ve managed it. Congratulations. It seems you’re more complex an individual than I initially gave you credit for.”

Draco inhaled deep in an effort to hold on to his rapidly dwindling composure. “I don’t need nor do I want your congratulations.”

“No,” Yaxley said and had the nerve to laugh. It was more a wheeze than anything, but it still chased goosebumps up Draco’s arms. “I don’t suppose you do. But that doesn’t matter. You have it anyway. Although I fear it won’t do you any good.”

At that, Draco laughed as well. “You don’t say.”

Yaxley ignored this and continued, “You’ve surprised me this past week, and yet I’m almost confident the question you truly want to ask me would not. Think of me what you will, Draco, but the Dark Lord valued me for a reason. I can read people, you know, better than most others, and I have read you, and I think you and I both know what it is I discovered.”

Draco froze.

His mind went blank, his back went rigid, his breath caught at the back of his throat. No. There was no way Yaxley knew. None at all. No, he was bluffing, had to be, just toying with Draco because he could, because he was a sadist and a bastard and this was, as he’d said, his last hurrah.

Yaxley leaned forwards, and his lips twisted into what could only be described as a grin, evil and heinous as his eyes, eyes full of such dark, dark mirth it would have made Draco’s stomach twist were it currently not already in knots. The Death Eater leaned forwards, until there was only about ten inches between his face and Draco’s, and Draco could see every scar marring his face, every chipped off tooth, every particle of dirt staining the man’s skin and hair.

He knew he ought to react, to move, knew the man in front of him was dangerous, deadly, even—but his mind had stopped functioning entirely, and so he did not.

A rattling sounded, like chains clinking against each other, and sure enough, Yaxley’s hands, previously hidden beneath the metal table, lifted until they lay in the free space between them, wrists adorned with thick, silver manacles.

“I’m about to show you something, Draco,” Yaxley said, and alone the cold, icy, wicked _joy_ should have made Draco move, snap out of whatever daze he was suspended in, leave the cell, leave the Ministry. Go back to Harry, take him where no one could reach them, no one at all. “Something I think you’ll find very interesting indeed.”

And then, before Draco could so much as form another thought, the man pushed at his manacle, pushed and pushed until his skin was red and scuffed, and Draco momentarily panicked, sure Yaxley would somehow escape now, and it’d be on Draco for letting him, for just sitting there, and Harry—

All thoughts froze in his mind when he caught sight of it; the name, written in cursive, beautiful letters, etched into the grimy, red skin of Yaxley’s wrist. And the thick, crisscrossing scars cutting straight across it, making the name entirely illegible, the lines puckered and white from age.

Draco didn’t know what to say, how to react. All he could do was stare.

“Her name was Carlota,” said Yaxley, and the piercing clarity of his voice finally made Draco tear his eyes away from the scarred soulmark and look up into the Death Eater’s cold eyes. What he found there was nothing short of delight. “She was a half-blood, two years under me in Hogwarts. A Hufflepuff, if you’ll believe it. From the moment I met her, I thought she was too good for me.” The man gave a wheeze, but Draco couldn’t tell whether it was derisive or rueful. “We were good together for a time, Carlota and I. Very good, in fact. But you should know, my boy, everything ends. _Everything_ , regardless of how strongly you may believe the opposite. So, when I joined the Dark Lord and she disapproved, I knew I needed to cut her loose. She was always too much of a muggle-lover anyway, wanted to ‘fight for what’s right’.” His eyes glinted jet-black. “Carlota was much like Potter, in that regard. I believe she would have even joined Dumbledore’s Order, if given the chance.”

Draco could only sit there in mute astonishment, both at the soulmark and the story and the fact that Yaxley was telling him this in the first place.

“The Dark Lord perceived Carlota as a danger, both to the cause and my loyalty to him. I never would have betrayed him for her, of course, not ever, but he was right to be concerned. Carlota was…a distraction.” Yaxley leaned back again, and when Draco looked back up into his eyes, they were like two empty, hollow shells of obsidian. “So, I did away with her.”

And before Draco could even fully process those words, process what Yaxley had done to the woman he’d loved, to his soulmate, the Death Eater spoke again.

“There, I showed you my soulmark. I told you my story. I dare say, my boy, it’s your turn now.” He grinned, exposing a row of chipped, yellowing teeth, all of them unnaturally sharp under the harsh lighting of the room. “And what an interesting story I’m certain yours’ll be. I’m curious, did you realise before or after you betrayed the Dark Lord that you wanted to fuck the one person you were supposed to hate?”

The next few moments happened in slow motion, as though the world had come to an abrupt stop, paused, and then started turning again, slowly at first, but then quicker, and quicker, and quicker, until everything was spinning, until the dark cell walls blended into one shade of black and Yaxley’s pallid, frail form was all Draco could make out in the haze.

“But not only that, am I right?” There was a pause. “Tell me, does Mr. Potter know you bear his name on your wrist?”

And just like that, Draco was torn out of his daze, and awareness came slamming back into him with a force that momentarily stole away his breath, like the Hogwarts Express at full speed. He jumped out of his chair and then he was stumbling back, back, back, away from Yaxley, away from his knowing grin, away from those ice-cold onyx eyes.

Yaxley’s lips curved upwards. “Evidently not.”

Draco’s heart hammered in his chest, and he didn’t care he must look like a fool, that he was giving the Death Eater all the confirmation he could possibly need. All he could think was that _he_ _knew_ —the man who’d tried to murder Harry on multiple occasions, who’d like nothing more than to hurt him, kill him if he could, who would find a way to use this against him, and Harry—

_Harry_.

“I must admit I was dubious at first,” the Death Eater was already continuing, tone calm and unbothered, as though talking about something as mundane as the weather. “Lucius had told me, of course, about your unhealthy obsession with the Potter boy throughout your time at Hogwarts. But I’d always been of the impression it was just that—not _love_. Goodness gracious, Draco, what a delicious surprise that was. Frankly, it’s a better punishment than I myself could have ever come up with. Tell me, how does it feel, loving someone so untouchable, so unattainable? Someone who will never love you back? It must hurt something excruciating, I’m sure.”

Oh Salazar. Salazar, Salazar, Salazar, no no no _no_ —

Draco’s heart drummed against his ribcage with such urgency he feared it might just burst from the strain. His ears were beginning to ring, and his breath was becoming dangerously sparse. He needed to get out of here, needed to get to Harry, right now, right this instant. That was all he could think, all he could do, and so he staggered to the door, away from Yaxley, away from those _eyes_.

His hand fumbled for the doorknob, but his fingers slipped, and he cursed himself and the door and fucking _Yaxley_ , and dug through his pocket for his wand, heartbeat all the while filling his ears. Finally, Draco found it, and he spelled the door open and stumbled outside and didn’t look back, didn’t glance over his shoulder to see Yaxley watching him with that same deranged, sharp, _knowing_ grin.

He Flooed straight home.

When Draco stumbled out of the fireplace—not even bothering to dust himself off as he usually would, to righten his tie and smooth out his hair and make sure not to get his dragonhide boots dirty as he stepped over the ashes—the singular, the one and only, the lone most important thought on his mind was of Harry. He needed to see him, to make sure he was alright, to make certain he stayed that way, to—

It was with one foot out the fireplace that Draco froze. Blinked once, blinked twice, three times.

And then a surge of such intense anger engulfed him that he momentarily forgot to breathe.

“What. _The_ _fuck_. Is he doing here,” he gritted out, and it was then that Harry and Nic noticed his arrival and turned to look at him from where they stood by the kitchen door, no more than a foot or two of space between them.

Harry’s mouth formed a perfect O, and any other time Draco would have spent minutes on end marvelling about the sheer brilliance of his green eyes. But there was no room for awe inside him, not under the combined weight of the panic and horror and _fear_ battling inside him ever since Yaxley’s revelation, and now this, the pure anger at seeing that _bastard_ standing there, standing so close to Harry he could probably lean in and kiss him if he wanted—

It was too much.

Too. Fucking. Much.

“Draco,” said Harry, surprised. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

Draco knew he didn’t mean it callously, knew it wasn’t an accusation, knew he was just stating a simple fact, and yet the words still triggered another wave of rage within him.

“Well, I am,” he snapped. “Sorry if I interrupted something.”

Harry furrowed his brow, already opening his mouth to reply.

But before he could, Nic, smiling at Draco as though they were lifelong friends, said merrily, “No problem. We already finished up.”

If Dominic Hayes ever met Narcissa Malfoy, Draco thought at that moment, then he’d better kiss the very ground she walked on—for without her scrupulous training in self-control, Draco had no doubt he would have murdered the man then and there.

Harry had the good sense to look slightly embarrassed and take a step back, and although there was still more than enough of it there, Draco could feel the tension in his chest ease a fraction.

“Right then,” said Harry, looking from Draco to Nic. The smile he sent the other man, if small, made Draco want to break something. Preferably Hayes’ face. “See you later, then?”

Draco blinked, but before he could so much as open his mouth, Nic was nodding, wearing a grin so gigantic and bright it made Draco glad he’d forgone lunch. “Sure thing. Say around six?”

Yes, Harry was definitely blushing now, there was no doubt about it. The Gryffindor nodded. “Sounds good.”

Nic gave a laugh, and Merlin and Morgana above, how Draco _despised_ that man. Especially when he said, “Great! It’s a date.”

Oh.

Oh _no_.

Draco went very still indeed. So still, in fact, that he wondered briefly whether his heart was still beating at all. But then there was blood rushing in his ears and the boiling, twisting feeling Draco recognised all too well, recognised it from the day he had stood in front of his father and told him he was done. That he was going to change sides, for he could no longer bare it, fighting for someone who wouldn’t think twice before slaughtering him like an animal, that he was going to defect from the Death Eaters as he should have done from the beginning, that he was leaving, and so was his mother, and Lucius could either join them or stay behind.

Draco still remembered that day with so much clarity it could’ve easily been yesterday, as though it’d been just the day before he’d stood in his father’s study, in front of the 18th-century desk Lucius had had shipped over from the Continent, staring down at his father where he sat completely still and silent for one minute, two, three. He’d just stared at Draco overtop his reading spectacles with that same cold, unreadable expression Draco himself used so often to hide his true feelings from the world.

And then Lucius had stood and Crucioed his son, without ever breaking his composure.

The pure anger Draco had felt that day, the fury and hatred and _sadness_ that came from knowing his father was lost to him, that he would rather die, would rather _kill his own son_ , than betray his master—that was what Draco associated that twisting feeling in his chest with. The anger it accompanied, and the despair, the misery, the _pain_. It had that day in the study, and it did now, and all he could do was stand there and stare.

“Draco, are you—” Harry began tentatively, taking a step towards him, and there was worry lacing his tone, coating his expression, worry and concern.

But Draco couldn’t think straight, couldn’t think _at all_ , and so he spat, with so much venom he actually made his soulmate recoil, “I hate to break it to you, _Nic_ , but Potter here’s not allowed to leave this flat, not without me accompanying him. So, _unfortunately_ , there will be no dates of any sort, not today or in the foreseeable future. Oh, and if you would kindly fuck off now, that’d be much appreciated.”

And without another word, Draco shouldered past Harry, not looking him in the eye as he passed, not looking at him at all, and marched into the kitchen to get himself a bloody cup of tea.

He marched up to the cupboard they kept the mugs in with singular focus, anger a palpable, searing thing inside him, blazing white-hot within his chest. Draco grabbed the next best mug, and if he slammed the cupboard door shut again just a bit too forcefully, if he flicked his wand with a vengeance as he cast an Aguamenti on the mug, followed by a half-hissed, half-growled Water-heating spell, if he accidentally ripped open the tea package as he thrust it into his tea water—well, then that was no one’s business but his own.

Draco brought the steaming mug to his lips and took a long, deep sip of his newly prepared chamomile tea, burning his tongue but not caring in the slightest. He hated the stuff, always had, but his mother used to say chamomile tea helped relieve stress and reduce anxiety, both of which he could really bloody use right about now.

On second thought, Draco mused bitterly, maybe he’d better make two cups.

He didn’t hear Harry enter, likely due to the fact that the rushing of his blood and the drumming of his heart still drowned out all other sound. Were it not for the tell-tale smell of sandalwood and cinnamon and citrus that hadn’t left Draco in peace since their almost-moment in the empty interrogation room the day before, he wouldn’t have noticed the Gryffindor’s arrival at all.

Draco stood with his back to the door and his mug at his lips and waited for Harry to speak, to yell at him and curse him and tell him he was a self-important arse who didn’t deserve his friendship.

Instead, though, Harry simply said, “It went well then, I take it.”

Draco stiffened, his fingers gripping the scalding mug like it was the sole thing tethering him to this world. “Piss off, Potter,” he snapped and immediately regretted it. But it was too much, all of it, and he couldn’t stop himself.

He could practically hear Harry clench his jaw, that’s how hard he did it. “Look, I don’t know what Yaxley said or did or…hinted at, but you need to calm down. You can tell me about it, not tell me about it, whatever. But stop acting like a dick.”

The fact that, even when angry at Draco, Harry would still offer to listen, to give comfort should Draco need it…it made the twisting in his chest worse, somehow, and it was all he could do to keep from crumbling to the floor then and there.

Because Draco felt vulnerable right now—so unspeakably vulnerable, and helpless, and exposed—he did what he’d always done in situations like these, when his emotions threatened to spill over, when matters became too risky: he lashed out.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Potter?” he barked. “Someone else to pester? Like your precious _Nic_ , for example. I’m sure he’d be all too eager to coddle you.”

Draco could practically _feel_ Harry’s eyes boring into him, drilling through the skin in between his shoulder blades, piercing through him sharper than any blade.

“I already told you, Nic’s not my anything.”

Draco barked a laugh at that, but the sound of it, oddly shrill and disconnected, felt wrong in his own ears. “Isn’t he? So, I suppose I misheard, then? You weren’t planning on going on a date with him later?”

There was a long moment of silence, and Draco could hear only his heartbeat drumming through him, thunderous and incessant, pumping the anger and pain and _fear_ through his veins. For as much as he knew it was a futile hope, he wanted Harry to disagree. To tell him no, he had indeed misheard, that Nic was a friend and nothing more, that Harry wouldn’t ever go on a date with him no matter how much the man threw himself at his feet. Draco wanted that so. Much. More than he could even begin to fathom.

Yet then Harry spoke again, and the world came crashing down on Draco as his soulmate said, voice hard, “No, I was. I still am.”

And Draco didn’t think that twisting feeling in his chest had ever been so bad before.

“Great. Terrific. Fan-fucking-tastic.” He choked out another laugh. “By the way, where’re Weasley and Granger? Don’t tell me you sent them away when Hayes got here? You know, usually I’d say that was incredibly daft of you, seeing as you could’ve been murdered at any given point. But, honestly, it’s rather brilliant, isn’t it, when you think about it? That way, with them gone and me at the Ministry, you finally got to spend some quality alone time with your _boyfriend_. So sorry for disrupting that, by the way. Won’t happen again.”

It _hurt_. So much. To the point that he feared his chest might just constrict completely and his lungs would stop working. He’d collapse to the floor and his heart would burst and he’d die right there on the cold kitchen floor, knowing not only had he brought about his own soulmate’s ruin by letting the man who wanted to kill him know of his potentially greatest vulnerability, no, said soulmate didn’t even fucking _know_ what he was to Draco, never would, because even after all this time spent together, even after becoming friends and learning to trust each other, even then Harry couldn’t love him the way Draco wanted—no— _needed_ him to.

There was a silence so pregnant it hung in the air like smog, and Draco couldn’t take it anymore.

“Well, go on then,” he said. “Off you go. After all, wouldn’t want to keep your _boyfriend_ waiting, now would we? It’s funny, I never even considered you might be bent. But I suppose the right person’s all it takes, right?”

He hated himself for those words even before he’d finished speaking. But they were already out there, and there was no way to take them back, and it’d felt _good_ to vent his anger, to ease the chaotic, searing bundle of emotions twisting and writhing within him, if only briefly.

But now Draco looked at Harry, and he knew he’d fucked up. So. Bloody. Bad.

Harry only stared at him for a long moment, and there was shock visible on his face, in his wide eyes, so ridiculously green they made Draco temporarily forget the emotions thrashing within him. There was shock, and there was hurt, and Harry looked like Draco _felt_ , which was just wrong on so, so, so many levels, and it made him want to turn back time and put things right.

But then the shock and the hurt disappeared, and in its wake, fury flooded Harry’s eyes.

“Wow,” Harry said, and his voice quivered ever so slightly, as though he could barely restrain his rage. Draco couldn’t blame him. “Just _wow_. I’ve really got to hand it to you, Malfoy. I knew there was still some of that pureblood prejudice in there somewhere, but I can’t say I expected you to stoop _so_ bloody low. Homophobia? Really?” He snorted, but there was not a hint of that usual joy in his eyes. “You know, I shouldn’t be so surprised. But, congratulations, you’ve managed it anyway.”

And that last part reminded Draco so starkly of what Yaxley had said that he felt like sobbing.

Instead, however, he forced his features into cold, harsh indifference, into a mask of calm composure, above the mess of emotions and pain and _rawness_ he felt looking at Harry, above it all. And he said coolly, “Well, we can’t all be the great Harry Potter, now can we.”

Harry blinked at him in silence for a long, long moment.

Then he shook his head, looking at Draco with such anger and disappointment and _disgust_ that it was a miracle the Slytherin didn’t keel over dead from the sheer intensity of it.

And then Harry turned on his heel and left without another word.

Draco didn’t know how long he stood there, clutching his mug of chamomile tea, which still steamed and fumed, tendrils coiling and twirling in the air with deceptive ease, as though the world hadn’t just went crashing and burning in this very kitchen.

Eventually, however, he set down the mug and made for the living room. Why, he couldn’t say, for he didn’t expect Harry to be there, sitting in his designated armchair and smiling and laughing like he would have a mere day before. No, Harry was either in his room, or gone entirely, perhaps out with Nic already, and—

Draco came to a staggering stop.

For it wasn’t Harry standing by the fireplace, wasn’t Nic either, or Robards or anyone he would have expected.

He gaped. “ _Granger_?”

The bushy-haired Gryffindor winced ever so slightly, and not even the dark brown of her skin could hide the blush furiously blooming on her face. As a matter of fact, Draco noted even through his bewilderment, she looked almost _guilty_ , recoiling ever so slightly at the sound of his voice, inching towards the fireplace as though she might like to jump in and Floo far, far away from this flat.

But instead, she simply averted her eyes and said, “Hullo, Malfoy.”

They just stood there in silence for an instant, and as Draco studied Granger closer, as he watched her so resolutely _not_ look at him, appearing torn between guilt and disappointment, it hit him with a pang.

“You heard that, didn’t you?”

Granger’s flinch was answer enough.

“How much?”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds. Then, however, she gave a little huff and said, “Enough. More than enough.”

Draco nodded. It was all he could think to do, all his mind could come up with.

“I suppose you were looking to talk to Harry?”

Granger blinked and glanced up at him, her dark brown eyes assessing as they studied his. Draco had no idea what she saw there, whether what she found was an answer to her unspoken question, whether said answer was good or bad or something in between.

But then she, too gave a curt nod. “Just wanted to make sure he was alright. He seemed to have everything under control, and then Nic came by and. Well.” She didn’t elaborate, and Draco would have been thankful for that, were it not for her piercing, relentless gaze, the type that penetrated a person’s very soul, exposing every and all of one’s secrets.

Draco swallowed.

“He’s fine, I’m positive,” he said, hoping his voice sounded as calm and unaffected to Granger as he meant it to. “I can’t tell you where he is exactly, whether he’s in his room or out with _Nic_ , but either way he should be relatively safe.”

Granger studied him with sharp eyes. “Positive, are you?”

“It’s an expression, Granger. A figure of speech. I thought _you’d_ know all about that.”

However, the Gryffindor didn’t rise to the bait, and Draco was left feeling both mildly disappointed and…unnerved. Yes, definitely unnerved.

Especially when she said, “You know, Draco, I don’t think you are as much of a git as you might like people to think.”

Draco froze, caught off guard by both the bluntness of that statement and the usage of his first name. “I can assure you, Granger, I—”

“Oh, spare me.” And Hermione Granger rolled her eyes.

What the fuck.

“Look,” she continued, and here Draco had been wondering whether this day could get any more bizarre, and the answer, it seemed, was a very definite yes. “I don’t know what possibly possessed you to think saying such horrible things to Harry would be a good idea, but I’ve come to realise over these past few days that attempting to understand a Slytherin’s way of reasoning is nothing but a waste of energy. So, I’ll spare us both the time and cut straight to it, yes?”

She paused, looking at Draco expectantly, any trace of that earlier blush long gone, replaced instead by that fiercely glimmering purpose Draco had learned to expect when faced with Hermione Granger. It dawned on him then that she was waiting for him to answer, and so, although he dreaded whatever ‘it’ was, he gave a dazed nod.

“Perfect,” she said and crossed her arms. “I’ll precedent this by saying that I don’t particularly like you, Draco. Not really, not yet. You were too cruel to me and my friends all those years at Hogwarts for me to completely forgive you any time soon. But the thing is, Harry _does_. Forgive you, I mean. He’s come to like you quite a lot, to tell you the truth, and that’s more than good enough for me. So, I’ll tell you this now with complete honesty, and you can make of it what you will.”

Oh bugger.

“I don’t think you were being homophobic just then,” she said, tone light, as though it was all just so unproblematic and easy.

Draco’s stomach contorted, because he already _knew_ what she was going to say next, and, Salazar and Circe, he wasn’t fucking _ready_ for it.

“As a matter of fact—” Her eyes were like two slits of smouldering flame, a fire that was directed at Draco and Draco alone. “—I think that’d be rather hypocritical of you. Am I wrong?”

Silence.

For a moment, all Draco could do was stare, and today truly was the most horrific day in his life, because who had decided it would be _fair_ to make his heart nearly stop on ten separate occasions in the past hour alone. It _wasn’t_ , and he’d never wanted to leave as badly as he did at that moment.

He thought of lying, of denying it and insulting Granger and simply walking out, leaving, just as he yearned to do.

But then he also thought of Harry, of the hurt in his face when Draco had lashed out, of the disappointment and disgust he’d known even then he deserved.

And so, he swallowed hard, and averted his gaze, and said in a strangled, broken sort of whisper that would have his forefathers turning in their graves, “No, you’re not.”

Granger studied him for a moment longer in silence, then nodded once more. “Well then, I dare say you owe Harry an apology.”

Draco couldn’t help himself—he laughed, although it really was more of a sob than anything else. “I do, don’t I? Too bad he hates my guts now.”

Granger huffed a laugh as well, one that was just as grim as Draco’s but still so full of confidence. “The crazy thing is, Draco, I genuinely don’t think he does.”

And, oh, didn’t that make his heart sing.

Granger still wouldn’t stop looking at him, but Draco didn’t even mind anymore. His mind was already racing, just as fast, if not faster, than his heart, and so he barely heard her as she said, “You are surprisingly good for him, Draco Malfoy. I never thought I’d say that, but it’s the undeniable truth. Don’t make both of you miserable just because you’re too scared of the alternative.”

The words reminded him of something Blaise had told him just a few days before, something that echoed through his mind even now.

_Don’t fight this_ , Blaise had said. _You’re only sabotaging yourself_.

It was true, of course, had been since the beginning. But Draco had never imagined, never so much as considered that maybe, just maybe, he was hurting Harry as well.

And that was one thing he had never wanted to do.

“Will you make it right?” asked Granger, and Draco had momentarily forgotten she was there. He didn’t know whether she meant he ought to apologize, or whether she was telling him to _tell Harry_ —which, honestly, was an anomaly all in its own, something he had never, _ever_ expected to happen, not even in his wildest dreams.

But his throat felt constricted, and he croaked out, “Isn’t it too late for that? Hayes asked him out on a date, you should know. And he accepted.”

What an odd experience, _confiding_ in _Hermione Granger_.

Granger merely shrugged. “Then you just have to show him you two suit each other better.” A small smile broke out across her lips. “Plus, an apology—and I mean a _proper_ apology, no Slytherin half-arsing it—would likely go a long way.”

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I—thank you, Granger. And…” He swallowed hard. “And I’m sorry. Truly.”

Granger’s smile widened ever so slightly. “I know.”

The truth was, Yaxley had been right about one thing—the one question that bothered Draco the most was not who Yaxley’s accomplice was. It wasn’t even why Yaxley had done it, why he’d decided to throw his life away for a psychopath, how he could look at the people around him, at muggleborns and muggles and people like Harry, and deem them unworthy of life.

No, the question Draco couldn’t stop asking himself, hadn’t for years now, was far simpler:

Why Harry?

Draco didn’t know why the wheel of fortune had decided to align their fates, why he was destined to love someone he really shouldn’t, why he had let himself fall so hard. He doubted there was a proper answer to any of those questions anyway.

But what Draco did know was this: Their fates _were_ aligned, and he _was_ destined to love someone he really shouldn’t, and he _had_ fallen hard, so, so hard, whether voluntarily or not.

It _was_ Harry, had been for years, perhaps since the very beginning—so now Draco just had to makes sure it was _Draco_ for Harry as well.

He offered Hermione a smile of his own. “I’m very sorry, Hermione, but I’m afraid I must get going now. It seems I have some work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was a rollercoaster. Lots of ~feels~ and thoughts and a bunch of other stuff. Hehe. I'm evil, I know.


	16. ignorance is bliss, so might as well enjoy it while it lasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES I KNOW I'M TWO DAYS LATE, I'M SORRY, PLEASE ACCEPT THIS HUMBLE OFFERING AS COMPENSATION.  
> On a different note: Harry is totally the stupid, oblivious imbecile we all know and love, and I'm here for it.  
> Enjoy!

Harry was angry.

No, ‘angry’ didn’t cut it. The word ‘angry’ implied something small, something fleeting, like when Harry got mad at Ron for eating the last slice of pizza or when Hermione’s constant, incessant nagging got on his nerves. ‘Angry’ was never more than a small little flame, sputtering brighter at times and fainter at others, depending on the situation at hand. ‘Angry’ was brief, controllable.

Except the feeling in Harry’s chest wasn’t a small, sputtering flame—it was a bonfire, gigantic and implacable and raging. It didn’t feel very brief or fleeting or easy to overcome, and it certainly wasn’t anywhere near controllable.

Now, Harry had always prided himself on his ability to forgive. He had forgiven Dumbledore for always hiding things, for keeping important information from him, for lying, why, even for ‘raising him like a pig for slaughter’, as Snape had once so poetically phrased it. Hell, Harry’d even forgiven _him_ —Severus Snape, the man who for years and years had seized every opportunity to belittle and humiliate and insult Harry at every turn, to make his life a living hell, all because of some childhood feud.

Vindictive was not an adjective Harry ever wanted ascribed to his name. So, he forgave and, most of the time, he forgot.

However, there must always come a time to draw the line. And _this_ , he thought indignantly, this seemed like a damn good point to do so.

Harry didn’t have the words to describe how very much he currently wanted to strangle one Draco Lucius Malfoy, how much the thought of him made his gut twist and his chest constrict, how much he wished he never had to see the Slytherin’s stupid, pointy, annoyingly symmetrical face ever again, not later today, not tomorrow, not in a million years.

Only said stupid, pointy-angled, symmetrical-faced Slytherin _lived in his flat_ , so, really, Harry’s options on the matter were limited.

Fucking _git_.

“—you alright, Harry? Harry?”

Harry’s head snapped up, only to find Nic watching him with lifted eyebrows and a small, clearly amused smile.

He winced.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry said and loosened his death-grip around his water glass. “My mind’s a million miles away. What were we talking about again?”

Nic chuckled. “No worries. Sometimes you just get those sort of days, right? Happens to everyone.”

Sometimes you just want to murder your flatmate/sort-of-bodyguard/maybe-friend-but-evidently-not-really-because-friends-don’t-act-like-that-or-judge-you-or-make-you-feel-so-bloody-awful. Right? Happens to everyone.

Harry ducked his head, fingers curling back around his glass. “Yeah, something like that.”

Nic snorted and shook his head, but judging by the pretty smile winding across his lips and the bright twinkle in his blue eyes, he didn’t seem particularly annoyed.

That was another thing—Dominic Hayes was indisputably pretty. Or handsome, rather. Harry wasn’t sure exactly which one word or characteristic would be best used to describe Nic; his eyes, for one, were very deeply blue, and his hair looked incredibly soft, and he had a very nice smile with very white teeth. He was one of those people who looked amazing without even trying, sort of like Dra—

Harry fingers clenched around his glass.

 _Anyway_ , point is, Nic was very fit. Nic, not Draco. Draco was a prat, a rude, self-centred, bigoted, overbearing, nasty little _shit_ who wouldn’t even—

Right then.

Deep breaths.

Nic was still watching him with unconcealed amusement, and it made Harry’s cheeks flush pink, which in turn made his eyes snap up to scan the nearby tables for any obvious eavesdroppers. Which was naturally entirely pointless, seeing as everyone around them was muggle, and Muggles didn’t give a rat’s arse that Harry Potter was currently on a date with one Dominic Hayes.

They were out in Muggle London, at some fancy-looking restaurant Nic had sworn had the best French cuisine in the area, the name of which Harry likely wouldn’t be able to pronounce even if held at wandpoint.

Nic, it seemed, must have called upfront and reserved a table for them at the back of the restaurant, which was less packed than the rest of it. Plus, the view was amazing; one wall was completely made of glass, so that you could enjoy a perfect view of the city below as you ate, of the lights and buildings and cars and people, of the hustle and bustle that never ended, not even when the sun set and the moon and stars lit up the night sky instead.

It was beautiful, and Harry was touched by the thought that had so obviously flowed into Nic’s choice of eatery. Harry doubted he’d have ever discovered the place alone, doubted any of his friends would frequent such an evidently posh restaurant, save for Draco of cour—

 _God damnit_.

“So, Nic,” he said, firmly shutting down all thoughts of Draco sodding Malfoy. He was on a _date_ , for God’s sake. “If it’s alright to ask, would you mind telling me a bit more about your sister? From what you’ve told me already, she sounded like a wonderful person.”

It could have very well been Harry’s imagination, but he thought to have glimpsed a flash of something in Nic’s blue eyes, something harsh and deep. But then it was gone, and there was nothing but sadness left over in his gaze, sadness and pain and a sort of wistfulness Harry knew all too well.

Immediately, Harry wanted to kick himself. _This_ was why he never dated—he was bloody awful at it.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, you really don’t have to. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Nic said, his lips twitching into a small half-smile. “Really, it is. I don’t mind talking about Delia. I just…don’t do it very often.”

Again, Harry could sympathize with that. There’d been a time after Sirius’ death, a few weeks, maybe a few months, when the mere mention of his godfather’s name had triggered such an intense, white-hot surge of _rage_ within him that he’d been barely able to function, let alone healthily dismantle his grief. Then had come the pain, and afterwards—and only afterwards—the tears.

But Harry knew the feeling, knew it far too well, and so he nodded understandingly and said, “Of course. Don’t feel pressured or anything. She just sounded brave, is all I wanted to say.”

At this, the corners of Nic’s mouth quirked upwards a bit. “She was.”

“And your parents? What do they do? Do they live in the States or over here?”

Nic didn’t answer for a moment, gaze fixed on his own glass of water, long enough that Harry started to wonder whether he’d done it again, said something stupid, something tactless, whether he’d just single-handedly ruined the date.

But then Nic replied, “Mom stayed in New York. She…hasn’t been quite right, since Da—since Delia died. But my aunt’s taking care of her while I’m over here, so she’s doing as well as can be expected.” He said it with a tight smile, but Harry could hear the pain lacing his tone.

The words reminded him of what Dra— _damnit_ —what _Malfoy_ had told him about Narcissa, and he felt just as useless as he had back then, sitting on the cold kitchen floor, listening to the Slytherin talk.

An image that, _again_ , had no place in Harry’s mind, not here, not now, not at all.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, rather pathetically. “I can’t even imagine. What about your father? Can he do anything to help her?”

Nic’s gaze remained downwards for another few seconds, silent as he stared into his glass, watched the little bubbles of carbonated water shoot out of the cup.

When he looked up again, a smile was stretched taut across his mouth. “Dad’s not really in the picture anymore, I’m afraid. He and my mother went through a nasty divorce, just a little while after Delia died. It was just…a lot on everyone. I don’t blame either one of them. Anyway, he doesn’t live in the States anymore, so there’s not much he can do.”

Harry blinked, surprised. “Oh.”

Nic, thankfully, didn’t get angry at Harry for his complete lack of tact. He simply chuckled and took a sip of his water. “Yes, oh indeed.”

A little bubble of silence engulfed their table, the muffled sounds of the rest of the restaurant nothing more than background music.

Now, Harry had never once in his life claimed he was good at relationships. Quite the contrary—he was well-aware he was and likely always would be rather pants at the whole affair.

Why? Relationships were tough—that was the truth, plain and simple. They weren’t always pretty. They were a lot—as in _a lot_ a lot—of work, sometimes even inordinately so. They demanded a certain type of awareness, a harmony of sorts between two separate, different people, one that was neither easily gained nor maintained.

Harry knew all this. He was well-aware how relationships were supposed to work, how they were supposed to feel. He understood the principles behind it, had experienced them himself the few times he’d gone out on a limb and actively tried dating.

But actually implementing and then _maintaining_ those ideas—that was where things usually went tits up.

However, Harry had just turned twenty. By wizarding law, he’d been an adult for over three years now. And while he certainly didn’t mind being single, Harry at the same time couldn’t quite shake the feeling he was supposed to have _found_ someone by now.

After all, Hermione and Ron had found each other—they were _soulmates_ for Merlin’s sake! As were Dean and Seamus, and Luna and Neville. Hell, in the time it’d taken Harry to realise he was bi, Pansy had already found _and_ left her soulmate. And Draco—

Urgh.

 _Point is_ , Harry couldn’t shake the feeling he was moving too slow, that he was missing something. Or rather, missing out.

Well, not any longer. There would be no more missing out, and no more ‘supposed to’s, because now Harry was determined, he was focused, he was _committed_ to doing it right.

Nic was fit, he was nice, he was thoughtful, and, moreover, he wasn’t just interested in Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Chosen One and Saviour extraordinaire. Sure, Harry didn’t have anything as profound as _feelings_ yet, but surely those would come.

So, Harry put on a large smile and said in an effort to break the silence, “You mentioned you went to Ilvermorny, right? What was that like?”

This, once again, made Nic smile rather wistfully. “It was amazing. A very different experience from Hogwarts of course, but amazing all the same. As I already said, I love Hogwarts, but Ilvermorny… It’s sort of like my home away from home, you know?”

Harry nodded. “Totally. Hogwarts was like that for me. Still is, in a way. Do they have Houses in Ilvermorny, too?”

“They do,” Nic assured him. “Four of them, just like Hogwarts. Wampus, Thunderbird, Horned Serpent and Pukwudgie. And before you say anything, trust me, I’m well-aware how silly the names are. I was Pukwudgie, so believe me when I say I’ve heard it all.”

Harry chuckled. “Oh, come now, they’re no sillier than Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Slytherin and Hufflepuff. I mean, _Hufflepuff_? Really? And don’t even get me started on ‘Hogwarts’. Who the hell came up with that one?”

Nic’s smiled widened. “They are rather ridiculous names, aren’t they?”

“Definitely.”

Nic laughed, causing a strand of hair to tumble across his forehead, and one moment it was Nic there, with his blue eyes and brown hair and laugh lines, and the next Harry couldn’t help but imagine Draco, sitting across the table in one of his expensive, tailored suits, fitting right in with the remaining clientele, looking regal and elegant with his high cheekbones and charismatic smile and silver twinkling eyes.

And just like that Harry was thinking about Draco again, of all the times they’d sat across from each other in the living room, the Slytherin curled up by the fireplace, reading that leather-bound book of his, always reacting annoyed when Harry interrupted him or asked him something or even just breathed too loud. Except then Harry would say something to provoke him, and Draco would slam his book shut with a sneer and launch into a volley of insults, and then Harry would respond in sort, and then after a few rounds of to-and-fro those insults would get so ridiculous one of them would inevitably crack up, and then they’d just sit there in the living room for hours on end and joke and laugh and talk, and—

And.

And now he was back to thinking about Draco.

Bloody _hell_.

The problem wasn’t that he was thinking about the blond git, per se. No, that was rather inevitable, what with how much Harry currently wanted to murder the arsehole with his bare hands.

The _problem_ was that when he caught his mind sidling back to the topic of Draco Malfoy, the first emotion he felt was never anger. No, on the contrary, anger and frustration and resentment never so much as made the top five, and Harry _hated_ himself for it.

He should have known better than to think Draco had changed, that _Malfoy_ was completely gone with all his prejudice and intolerance and chauvinism. He shouldn’t have let himself trust Draco so fully, shouldn’t have expected Draco to return the favour and not judge Harry.

Except he had, and a part of him—a far greater part than he’d ever care to admit—still _did_.

So, no, what he felt first when thinking of Draco was not anger, nor frustration, nor resentment.

What he felt first and foremost, primarily, above all else—that was hurt.

Because Harry had trusted Draco to take him as he was, flaws and all, to support him, to not hurt him in the way he had—and, in return, had gotten his heart trampled rather mercilessly.

“You’re doing it again.”

Harry was torn from his musings with a start, and when he looked up, he found Nic once again observing him with that same little smile, eyebrows raised just high enough to make Harry’s cheeks hot from embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, grimacing.

Nic simply replied, “Do you want to talk about it? Something’s clearly bothering you.”

Harry should have been touched by the compassion, but all he could feel was that same ache, that same _sadness_ he’d felt ever since storming out of the flat.

He sighed. “You know what, why not. Maybe you’ll be able to shed some light on the whole situation, because I’m bloody well swamped. It’s Draco. He and I…we had a row, to put it simply.”

Harry thought to have glimpsed the barest hint of surprise flash across Nic’s face, followed by something else, something too fleeting for him to possibly place. But then his expression became one of sympathetic tranquillity.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what about?”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Hell if I know. I mean, you saw how angry he was when he got back from the Ministry. He was livid and wouldn’t even tell me why. I figured it must’ve been because of Yaxley—”

“He went to see Yaxley?” Nic sounded genuinely surprised.

“Err, yeah. Draco wanted to talk to him alone. Thought he might be more willing to talk to an ex-Death Eater than a random Ministry worker.” Nic tensed a bit at that, and Harry mentally kicked himself. Christ, he really was rubbish at this dating-stuff, wasn’t he?

“Anyway,” he continued swiftly, “he got back, and I tried talking to him, tried checking up on him to make sure Yaxley hadn’t driven him to murder or anything—you know, the _friendly_ thing to do—and he just completely lost it. He was mostly angry I was going on a date with you, to be honest, and, well. It just shocked me, I guess. I didn’t expect him to be the homophobic type, you know?”

Nic hummed his agreement, expression unreadable. “Homophobic? You’re sure?”

Harry snorted bitterly. “Oh yeah. Pretty sure.”

A beat of silence ensued, and Harry found it unusually difficult to read Nic’s expression. He’d expected anger of some kind, after all, it was Nic Harry was on the date with Draco had so vociferously disapproved of. Plus, he’d never gotten the impression Nic much liked Draco, apology notwithstanding.

But there was no anger on Nic’s face, at least none Harry could find. Only blankness, and a sort of…thoughtfulness? That didn’t make sense.

He was just opening his mouth to change the topic, when suddenly, a commotion on the other side of the restaurant caught his attention.

Harry furrowed his brows, confused, and strained his neck to see what the fuss was about—only to do a double-take, blinking repeatedly just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

But, no, that was definitely Draco Malfoy barrelling towards them through the restaurant. But not the regal, elegant version of him Harry’s traitorous mind had conjured up only moments prior—this one looked a lot less elegant and a lot more manic, not to mention twice, no, triple as scary.

Draco paid no heed to the irritated outcries of customers and waiters alike, his scarlet Auror robes flapping in his wake, the red monstrosity looking decidedly out of place in the sea of blazers and fine dresses and silk ties. That alone struck Harry as immensely odd.

The first thing being, of course, the humongous scowl and rumpled, silver-blond mess that had replaced his usually-so-sleek hair. Oh, and the demonic glare he was currently pinning their table with.

“What the—” came Nic’s startled voice, and Harry could only echo that sentiment. He’d heard of the idiom ‘speak of the devil’ before, but never in his life had he seen it implemented so very literally.

Draco, much to the other restaurant-goers’ indignation, spared not a second glance at his surroundings, focus solely and resolutely pinned on Harry and Nic’s table. The intensity of it was…unnerving, to put it mildly, and Harry found himself briefly forgetting that he was supposed to be angry at the git.

Briefly, because the instant Draco had reached their table in a thunderstorm of red wizard robes and silver fury, he just _had_ to open his mouth.

“Get up, Harry,” he gritted out, not sparing Nic a second glance. “We’re leaving. Now.”

And just like that, Harry found himself promptly reminded why exactly it was he hated the Slytherin’s pointy sodding face.

“First of all, what the _fuck_ are you doing here?” he snapped. “And you can piss right off, thank you very much. I’m not going anywhere. Least of all with _you_.”

But Draco didn’t budge. Quite the contrary; he took a step closer, until he loomed rather menacingly over Harry, one hand sprawled on the table, one on the back of Harry’s chair. Which was just brilliant. Lovely, really. After all, it wasn’t like the bloody height difference was bad enough when they were standing.

“I said we’re _going_ ,” the blond repeated. “ _Now_.”

Harry pivoted in his seat to glower up at Draco with all his might, because what the ever-loving fuck gave the git the impression he could just barge in here—while Harry was on a _date_ , mind—and impose his infuriating, snobbish, _tall_ presence upon him?

“And _I_ said,” hissed Harry, “I’m not. Going. _Anywhere_. With the likes of you.”

Draco continued to glare down at him and Harry continued to glare up, neither so much as blinking lest the other think they’d won. Except staring directly into the Slytherin’s eyes was quite a lot harder than he’d have expected, possibly due to the startling silver intensity of them, and it made Harry realise two things:

One, Draco was not, in fact, angry. Not primarily, that is. He looked plenty angry, with his knotted eyebrows and his clenched jaw and his stormy, narrowed eyes. But that wasn’t the main emotion flashing across his face, not by a long shot.

First and foremost, the blond looked exhausted. And anxious. And very, very tense.

And secondly—and this realisation was perhaps even more jarring—his eyes really were unnaturally mesmerising.

Harry blinked, so startled by the course of his own thoughts that he only realised he’d practically admitted defeat when the Slytherin’s lips quirked weakly at the sides—not even a tenth the size of his usual smirk, though, which sent yet another pang of confusion through Harry’s mind.

“Tell me what’s going on,” said Harry, but the words didn’t carry half the gentleness they usually would. No, he was still too angry at the prick for _that_. “Tell me, or I’m not coming.” He scowled. “Wait, no, I’m not coming regardless, because as you well know I’m on a _date_.”

Draco’s semi-smile disappeared at that, replaced instead by a scowl even larger and fiercer than the first, which really was an accomplishment in its own right. But it made Harry’s anger broil up where it’d sat simmering in his chest, smothered by shock at seeing the Slytherin barge through the restaurant doors.

That, and it caused the monstrous claw around his heart to tighten painfully.

“Yes, yes, Potter, I’m well-aware,” snapped the blond, and _that_ was anger, no doubt about it. Nic hadn’t believed Draco was homophobic? Well, now he had his proof. “And as incredibly apologetic as I am to have to break it up, I’m afraid you’ll have to reschedule, because _we are leaving_.”

Harry clenched his jaw and jutted his chin out defiantly. “No.”

At that, Harry honestly thought Draco might whip out his wand and Avada Kedavra him right then and there, muggle witnesses and Statute of Secrecy be damned.

“Good thing I’m not asking,” the prat said, and just like that his abnormally long, slender fingers had wrapped themselves around Harry’s arm in an equally abnormal iron-grip, and then he was heaving Harry up and out of his chair, eyes glinting something fierce.

“What the—” exclaimed Harry as he was forcefully removed from the table. He tried to yank his arm free, but to no avail. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you bloody psychopath?!”

“Getting you out of here,” was Draco’s only answer. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I—you—Draco, you fucking loon! Let me _go_!”

Harry only dimly noted they must be putting on quite the show for the muggles all around them. Dinner and a performance—they were certainly getting their money’s worth, that’s for sure.

Harry twisted and squirmed until finally, by some miracle, he managed to wrench his arm out of the Slytherin’s hold. He stopped dead in his tracks, forcing Draco to stop as well. The Slytherin regarded him with pursed lips, crossed arms and a glower that would have made Hermione proud. There was frustration in his eyes, definitely—not that he had any right to be frustrated, the git—but also that same tension Harry’s glimpsed before, a disquietude that sent a shiver up Harry’s spine and whispered into his mind that something’s was off, something wasn’t right.

However, first and foremost, Draco had ruined his date, so he shoved all thoughts that weren’t how much he wanted to wring the blond’s skinny, maddeningly long neck out and away.

“Again,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on. Or else you can forget about me coming willingly.”

Draco wore an expression that stated in no unclear terms that he didn’t give a flying fuck whether or not Harry came _willingly_. But, much to Harry’s surprise (and relief, because he really hadn’t been in the mood to Obliviate fifty-something muggles tonight, thank you very much), Draco simply hissed at him through barred teeth, “Fine. I’ll tell you on the way out.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, because that hadn’t been the deal and Draco knew it, the bloody git, but was rudely interrupted by the blond’s warning, withering glare.

“We don’t have the _time_ for this, Harry,” he gritted out. “So, please, for Salazar’s sake, come _on_.”

And be it the please or the genuine desperation in Draco’s eyes, but Harry snapped his mouth shut and gave a small, brusque nod. He never stopped glaring at the Slytherin, though.

He turned back to Nic, who was still seated where Harry’d left him moments before, looking a mixture of alarmed, cross and just flat-out confused as he looked from Harry to Draco and back.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m so, so sorry about this. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. Look, I do not have even the faintest idea what the fuck his problem is, but, err, well…”

Nic glanced once at Harry, then back at Draco, and the emotions that passed across his face at that moment were so many so fast that Harry had not the slightest chance at interpreting even one. But then he sighed, and looked back at Harry with a tight but sincere-enough seeming smile.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Go…figure out what he wants. The date can be rescheduled.”

Harry sighed. “Yes. Yes, it can. Again, so sorry for everything.”

Nic nodded, and although he didn’t look particularly pleased, Harry didn’t get the impression he was incredibly angry either, so he fully counted it as a win.

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll be in touch.”

Harry nodded gratefully and lifted a hand in goodbye. “Perfect. See you then.”

He walked back to where Draco was waiting impatiently a few feet away, and it struck him then how abnormally _nervous_ the Slytherin suddenly looked. Which was just…so wrong, on so many different levels. Draco Malfoy did not get nervous; it simply was not a feature programmed into his DNA, annoyingly perfect as it was.

But now—now he looked very much nervous, with his drawn face and rumpled hair, as though he’d either gotten stuck in a windstorm or simply raked his fingers through it one too many times, even going so far as to fiddle with the sleeves of his robe. It was almost like something a _normal_ person would do.

Harry sent him a glower and motioned for the door. “Better get going then, right? Since you have so much to tell me on the way. Oh, and this had better be good, Draco, I do hope you realise that.”

Save for a twitch in the corner of his mouth, Draco didn’t react at all. He just stood there with all his annoying three-inches-taller-than-Harry-ness and stupid silver eyes. This only soured Harry’s mood further, and he shouldered past the blond with perhaps just a tad bit too much force, making him stumble a step.

Harry had expected himself to feel smug, or victorious, or at least a tiny bit triumphant. After all, he’d been fantasizing about punching the git in the face just minutes before. Yet all he felt then was that same vague pain in his chest area.

Harry exited the restaurant with the accustomed feeling of multiple dozen pairs of eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when he could sense Draco walking just behind him, could practically feel the git’s breath on his neck.

He grimaced and pulled up the collar of his shirt, sending the Slytherin a glower over his shoulder. “Do you have to walk so bloody close? Merlin, I swear I’m not going to run away.” _Although it’s certainly bloody tempting_.

Draco simply quirked his mouth at him, and although his glare was still plenty intense, it wasn’t half as heated as it’d been in the restaurant. However, Harry didn’t know whether that was something to celebrate, for now that most of the fury was gone, the agitation took centre stage.

He did not, however, back off. If anything, Harry had the feeling he drew even closer, matching Harry’s pace with ease. It made Harry’s cheeks flush and his heart do very bizarre things indeed.

All in discomfort, of course. All in discomfort.

“No,” he said simply, although the more appropriate term would have to be ‘hissed’. And as if that wasn’t suspicious enough on its own, the blond then glanced once over his left, once over his right shoulder, and when his robes swished open for just a split-second to reveal his right hand clutching his wand in a death-grip, Harry put two and two together.

The strange tension, the stress, the impatience for Harry to get home…

Oh no.

He stopped dead in his tracks, causing Draco to very nearly crash into him. The Slytherin cursed, but Harry could only stand there on the dimly lit sidewalk outside the restaurant, an unmoving stone in the sea of Londoners rushing down the sidewalk to get home, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Yaxley’s escaped, hasn’t he?”

Just like that, Draco stopped cursing, and his face smoothed over in that carefully constructed mask of composure Harry had grown oh-so-well acquainted with over the years. It was answer enough, so much so that Harry hardly even heard his next words over the violent beating of his own heart.

“Yes,” Draco said stiffly. “Yes, he has. Do you understand now why it’s of the utmost importance you get home immediately?”

Harry could only gape, mind suddenly a racing, reeling storm of thoughts, each more fleeting than the last. “I… _how_? How is that even possible?”

People didn’t just _escape_ from a Ministry holding cell. Least of all people with direct ties to one dead Dark Lord, people who killed without a second thought, without remorse—people whose names were _Corban Yaxley_.

It was simply impossible.

Draco pursed his lips. Under the watery glow of the streetlamps, the sharp angles of his face were even more defined than usual, and Harry couldn’t help but think he looked rather ethereal.

“I don’t know much more than you do.” His voice was…oddly gentle. A gigantic contrast to the venomous hiss it’d been minutes before. “It shouldn’t be possible. But he really is gone. Robards’s already had the whole place searched from top to bottom. Every office on every floor in every building. There’s no sign of him anywhere.” He inhaled deep. “No one knows how he did it. One moment Takeuchi was in there with him, questioning him, then they left the room for five minutes—and when they came back in, Yaxley was gone. You—”

He cleared his throat, and Harry could only stare in amazement, because Draco didn’t look angry anymore, he didn’t even look frustrated—he looked, simply put, exhausted.

“Several Aurors came to the flat the moment news of Yaxley’s escape broke. Weasley, his partner, a few others. But you weren’t there. And I…I didn’t know where you were, did I, save for the fact that you’d gone on a date with that—with _him_.”

He shook his head and although his words were still spiked with undeniable dislike, there was no contempt there, no disgust, and the action made a loose strand of silver-blond fall into his eye. And there it was, wasn’t it, the image Harry had envisaged less than half an hour ago. It was just as dazzling, just as flawless…and yet.

He hadn’t expected Draco to be so _upset_ , and that in turn left him with not an ounce of the white-hot rage he’d been painstakingly nursing all afternoon. Gone, just like that, in a poof of smoke and empty resentment.

“Anyway, I’d just returned from a few errands when they arrived, and. Well.” The Slytherin gave a mirthless laugh. “I suppose you could say I didn’t take it particularly well at first. But Granger showed up less than five minutes later, and she…helped.” His eyes took in Harry, and his mouth quirked into the ghost of a smile. “Long story short, I went to look for you, and I found you. Not that you made it very easy, mind you.”

Harry could only stare. Eventually, he got out, “Why…why are you telling me all this?”

Draco frowned at him. “You asked, did you not?”

“Well yes…” But for some reason the thought of Draco, quote unquote, ‘not taking it particularly well’ made Harry’s heart do all sorts of ridiculous, absurd things, made him feel oddly light-headed.

He did not, he decided, like the sensation one bit.

“Wait, how _did_ you find me? I never told you where we were going. Hell, _I_ didn’t even know where we were going.”

Draco pursed his lips and shot him the type of look Professor McGonagall had always specialised in back at Hogwarts, the sort that positively screamed to the world ‘you are an idiot, kindly remove yourself from my line of sight, or better yet, from the face of the earth’.

“As much as I would love to berate you on the subject of blindly trusting strangers just because they’re passably attractive, Potter, I’m going to let it slide this once, for the sole reason that we do not have the time,” drawled the Slytherin. “Now stop gaping and _come_. I did not nearly break the Statute of Secrecy so you could get yourself murdered through your own stupidity, understood?”

 _Ah, there he is again_ , Harry thought dimly as Draco’s hand once again wrapped around his wrist and started pulling him down the sidewalk. The real Draco Malfoy, the one with the sneers and sarcastic comments, the one who would never ever have the effrontery to _worry_ about Harry.

He only later realised Draco had never actually answered his question.

Draco pulled Harry into a narrow, dark alleyway, and he didn’t need any light to be able to say with utmost certainty that the Slytherin was currently scowling something fierce, for the simple reason that he could.

It was so very _Draco_ that Harry felt like bursting into laughter right then and there in the dingy alley, and he likely would have, were it not for the fact that he knew with utmost certainty that Draco would murder him if he did. Forget Yaxley, facing Draco’s Slytherin wrath was the most terrifying thing Harry’s confusion-addled brain could come up with.

But, really, who could blame him? After Hermione, Draco Malfoy was the scariest person Harry knew, and that was a fact.

Suddenly, Draco’s hand let go of Harry’s wrist, and Harry exhaled a relieved breath, already shifting to take a big step away from the blond with his weird eyes and weird words and weird…weirdness.

Except before he could, Draco’s cold hand grabbed _his_ , and just like that, Harry was frozen to the spot, a simple touch more effective than any Petrificus Totalus known to wizardkind.

Harry tried to pull away, and when that was unsucessful, he half-hissed into the dark, half-choked, “What are you doing—”

Draco glanced at him, and it could have easily been the dark confusing his senses, but Harry would have sworn the Slytherin smiled ever so slightly. “Apparating you home, of course.”

And before Harry could so much as blink, a familiar tugging sensation rose up in his chest, and then they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If things go according to plan (and I hope they do), next chapter ought to be a big one, so stay tuned!


	17. where the heart resides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for last week, here's chapter 17 a day early...I have a feeling you'll like it ;)  
> I won't say anything further, except...  
> ENJOY!

They materialised on the sidewalk outside, only to be immediately drenched by bullet-like raindrops pelleting down from the dark sky above. Within, seconds Draco found himself soaked from head to toe, dragonhide boots and hairstyle included (admittedly, the latter had been ruined hours ago, after he may or may not have suffered a nervous breakdown of sorts, but _that was not the point_ ).

Draco gritted his teeth so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised had one or two broken in the process.

Lovely. Wonderful. Absolutely perfect.

Because _this_ was the kind of ending his already-complete-and-utter-shite day needed. Soaked all the way down to his underwear within a matter of seconds.

Bloody _smashing_.

For the first and likely the last time in his life, Draco was glad his stupid tacky Auror robes had a stupid tacky hood built-in, and he let go of Harry’s hand just long enough to lift it up. The Gryffindor, however, didn’t notice, simply stood there, staring up at his apartment building with a concentrated look that scrunched up his nose in the most sickeningly adorable way. Either he didn’t care he was getting soaked—if so, good riddance—or he simply hadn’t realised yet it was raining cats and dogs and every creature in between.

Either way, Draco thought, what a moron.

Now, it should be stressed Draco was not, in fact, angry at the git. Not at all.

Even he could admit begrudgingly that Harry wasn’t to blame for Draco’s near-heart attack. It wasn’t Harry’s fault he’d been gone when Weasley and several other colleagues (whom Draco really ought to know the names of by now, but alas) had burst into the flat all frenzied and hectic, making Draco nearly spill the contents of his errands all over the kitchen floor. Harry’d simply left at the wrong time, left without ever saying where, left with that absolute _bastard_ Dominic—

Right, maybe Draco was just a little bit cross.

However, Draco could fully admit he himself was for the most part responsible for Harry’s abrupt departure. What he’d said to the man, to his soulmate…it hadn’t been particularly kind, to put it mildly. Plus, considering the Gryffindor’s infamous temper, Draco was actually fairly certain he’d gotten off easy.

Besides, whatever irritation he might perceive, it was still just a trickle compared to the ocean of relief he’d felt after finally finding Harry in that muggle restaurant halfway across the city. And hate the man as he may, he had to hand it to Hayes, nonetheless—the bastard had good taste.

In every bloody sense of the word.

Yet that relief was muffled by the sheer trepidation he hadn’t been able to shake since Weasley had crashed out of the fireplace a wide-eyed, dishevelled mess, and burst out without preamble of any kind ‘Yaxley’s gone!’. A tension deep within Draco, a fear, one that had admittedly been mollified at the sight of Harry safe and sound and without so much as a scratch on him.

But it was still _there_ , right at the front of his mind, pushing and prodding at him to hurry hurry hurry, something even the comforting, warm weight of Harry’s hand in his own couldn’t banish entirely.

“Wait, we’re outside,” Harry said, and Draco wondered not for the first nor the last time how the fuck he’d ended up in love with such a complete and utter imbecile. _Honestly_. Harry was lucky he was so fit.

Said fit imbecile turned to Draco with that confused look that simultaneously made the Slytherin want to strangle and kiss him. Prick. “Why didn’t you Apparate us into the flat?”

Draco swallowed an exasperated sigh. “Because getting doused in freezing cold rainwater is part of my pre-bedtime routine. No, Potter, as I already mentioned multiple times, there are _wards_ on your apartment building. No letters or owls or people, for that matter, are allowed to pass through them through magical means. Make sense?”

Harry scowled at him but, honestly, how was Draco supposed to take the man seriously when he was looking like _that_ , with his usually-so-messy head of curls flattened against his head, retaining not a hint of their usual bounciness, and his green eyes especially radiant under the ghostly silver light of the moon. He had absolutely no _right_ to look that good, Draco decided, not when _he_ in turn probably looked like a waterlogged albino rat. In an ugly bright-red poncho.

It simply wasn’t fair.

Draco scowled as well. “If there’re no further objections from His Highness the Chosen One, I’d very much appreciate it if we could _get out of the bloody rain now_.”

And without waiting for Harry’s response—because Draco wouldn’t put it past the git to stay out in the rain just to spite him—he once again gripped Harry’s hand, ignoring both the Gryffindor’s smothered gasp and the pleasant zap of warmth the touch sent up his arm, and dragged the other man up the front steps.

Once in the building, Draco didn’t slow down, instead pulling Harry up the two flights of stairs separating the ground-floor from the flat with renewed determination, only coming to a stop once the door had fallen shut behind them and they were both safely back in the flat.

“Merlin,” said Harry, slightly breathless. “You weren’t kidding when you said we needed to hurry. Bloody hell, you’d think Yaxley was right on your heels, that’s how fast you—wait, where are you going?”

Draco shot him a quick narrow-eyed glance over his shoulder. “I’m going to go change out of these wretched wet eyesores. In the meantime, do me a favour, Potter, and don’t get yourself killed. Think you can manage that?”

He pointedly waited for Harry to nod before turning on his heel and striding as quickly away from those horrid emerald eyes as he could.

_Salazar_ , he thought miserably, _that man’s going to be the death of me_.

* * *

Harry didn’t mean to linger.

Honestly, he didn’t know _what_ he’d meant to do—his mind was quite the chaotic place at the time being—but whatever it was, it certainly was _not_ standing in front of Draco’s closed bedroom door like some sort of stalker, wanting to knock but at the same time desperately wishing he could simply turn on his heel and run far, far away, hands all the while fisted at his sides to keep himself from doing anything particularly stupid.

How this had happened, he didn’t know. The git had just left. And, alright, fine, he hadn’t actually _gone_ anywhere. Plus, Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable in his own soaked sweater and trousers, and he figured he probably ought to go change too.

But _that was not the point_.

Point was, the closed door blocking Harry from the stupid Slytherin prat seemed a lot thicker than it should, a lot more definitive, and he found himself oddly on edge just standing there, waiting, hands itching to reach up.

Except that was stupid, Draco had literally just been gone for a few minutes. Harry needed to _relax_. He was acting ridiculous.

…but if he just knocked once to make sure Draco was indeed planning on coming back out tonight, that wouldn’t hurt anyone, right?

Harry swallowed, mouth feeling strangely dry, and, really, he was just checking to make sure he could have that talk with Draco, the one where he confronted the git for what he’d said, because he was still pissed at him, he was still—

The door swept open, and one moment Harry was standing in front of a large, imposing door, hand lifted and only millimetres away from the wood, the next he was standing face-to-face with one equally, if not more imposing Draco Malfoy, who was very decidedly _not_ made of wood.

How did Harry know this? Well, for one, wood was far too coarse a material for the git, with all his pureblood elegance and soft edges and ethereal grace. Porcelain would be more fitting, or perhaps glass, beautiful and polished, but cutting if handled incorrectly.

And secondly.

Well.

Secondly, Harry knew for certain Draco was not made of wood, for the git, in his apparent surprise to see Harry in front of his door, had evidently forgotten how to correctly put on a jumper. That was the only explanation Harry could come up with, because there Draco was, silver-blond hair still damp and curling at the ends, grey eyes wide and…currently semi-shirtless.

Which was just…fine. Absolutely, perfectly, extremely and tremendously _fine_.

They just stood there for a moment or two, and Harry only realised belatedly he was staring (alright, _gaping_ , but the exact details didn’t matter). Which, he felt needed to be stressed, was not his fault, not when Draco simply stood there staring right back, mouth opened just a sliver, pink lips parted in surprise as those damn eyes of his locked onto Harry’s.

All the while not moving a muscle, neither to take a step back, nor to _pull his damn jumper on the rest of the way_ like any normal person would have done by now.

Harry swallowed, very pointedly _not_ looking at the yards and yards of ivory skin currently on display, instead tearing his eyes from Draco’s and fixing his gaze on the wall right above the Slytherin’s shoulder.

His _naked_ shoulder.

Hrmph.

“Harry,” said the Slytherin, sounding surprised but at the same time also undeniably amused. “You’re here. Right here. In front of my door. Why, pray tell, are you here, right here, in front of my door?” Suddenly, he froze, and his smile slipped. “Wait, is something wrong? Did you hear any strange sounds? See something unusual?”

Harry blinked, and just like that, he was torn from his momentary daze, sobered by the flash of worry in the Slytherin’s grey eyes. He shook his head and said hastily, “What, no! No, nothing like that, everything’s fine. I was just…well…uhm…”

What _had_ he been doing, aside from lurking in front of Draco’s bedroom door like some sort of creep?

Oh Christ, Harry’d been lurking in front of Draco’s bedroom door like some sort of creep.

Thankfully, Draco didn’t urge him to elaborate. Whether that was because he could read Harry like an open book and recognised his apparent inability to look him in the eye for what it truly was—Harry sure hoped not—or simply some uncharacteristic show of generosity, Harry didn’t much care.

All he cared about was the very interesting, some might even say fascinating crack in the wall mere inches above Draco’s head.

Draco hummed softly, and Harry couldn’t tell whether it was a hum of contemplation or approval or delight, not without looking back into those piercing, soul-shredding eyes of his. And that was, very decidedly, _not_ an option he cared to take.

Except as the seconds stretched longer and longer, as the silence expanded and strained, Harry found his gaze inching back downwards, found his eyes practically drawn to Draco’s, like a magnet. Two silver, irritatingly captivating magnets.

“Right then,” the blond finally said after what felt like an eternity. “Hungry?”

Harry opened his mouth to decline, after all, he’d had a few bites of bread back at the restaurant—except his stomach took that very moment to gurgle particularly loudly, sending Harry’s cheeks flushing bright red and Draco’s eyebrows lifting in amusement.

“I suppose that answers my question,” the blond said with a little laugh, and the sound of it, light and smooth and as elegant as the rest of him, set something in Harry’s chest into motion, something soft and fluttery that wouldn’t stop squirming.

It was then that Draco, the utter loon, finally had the brilliant idea he might want to _put on his jumper_ , and Harry very nearly exploded with sheer relief when, at long last, every inch of ivory skin was once again fully covered. Thank Merlin for small mercies.

Silence descended back upon them, a silence static with tension. Except Harry wasn’t angry at Draco, not anymore, not by a long shot—though certainly not for lack of trying—so he wasn’t sure why the air all around them suddenly felt so charged.

“Maybe you—” Draco stopped midsentence and cleared his throat, and when Harry chanced a quick glance at the Slytherin’s face, he was surprised to find it flushed as well. “Maybe you could move a bit? You’re, err, blocking the way.”

Harry immediately felt such an overwhelming pang of embarrassment that he’d have loved nothing more than if the floor opened up and swallowed him then and there, releasing him from his misery. Because he _was_ blocking the way, wasn’t he. As a matter of fact, he was blocking the entire _door_ way, standing so close to Draco he could see every single long, blond eyelash.

_Christ_.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry mumbled as he practically jumped out of the way, wincing ever so slightly when Draco grimaced but then quickly schooled his features back into unreadability and strode past him with all the grace Harry would never have.

Harry had no choice but to follow.

Draco led the way into the kitchen, and at first Harry didn’t even notice the smell, too preoccupied with the unruly jumble of mush that had become his mind as of late. However, the tangy, aromatic scent of curry was not something easily ignored, and so by the time Draco had come to a stop in front of the kitchen counter, where multiple paper bags contained mountains upon mountains of stacked takeout-boxes, Harry realised just what it was he was seeing.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, eyes wide. “That’s Thai.”

Draco snorted, but the moment Harry’s eyes slid to him, he was stunned to find the blond blushing furiously, looking at the ground with the same fervour Harry had just minutes earlier. “No need to sound so surprised. I’m not entirely ignorant, you know.”

Harry could only stare. “I…of course, I know that, it’s just…that…but you…” He quickly gave up on words, instead simply making a helpless, entirely involuntary sound that had him cringing.

Draco grinned sheepishly—which only flabbergasted Harry more, because since when did Draco do _anything_ sheepishly?—and then said, “It’s my apology. Or was supposed to be, that is, before this entire fiasco started. It’s not even the whole apology, really, but I figured you’d like it, seeing as you were such an avid fan the day I moved i—the day I first came here. Now, I wasn’t actually sure which sort you liked, so I ended up getting a bit of everything, and I do hope it’s the right level of spiciness, because I have absolutely zero experience on the matter. I couldn’t quite read the menu either, to be honest, it was in some bizarre muggle alphabet, but the shopkeeper was kind enough to help me, and I—”

He fell abruptly silent, and Harry hadn’t thought it possible for Draco’s usually so pale cheeks to get any redder, but they did. It left that fluttering feeling in his chest growing and growing and expanding and expanding, until he half-expected to be sick.

But he was not, in fact, sick. Quite the contrary, Harry actually felt rather amazing, sort of giddy and exhilarated just standing there in the kitchen with Draco and a few paper bags of chunky takeout as company. So much so that he unthinkingly burst out, “Thank you!”

It came out a lot louder and more enthusiastic than Harry’d planned, and he winced as Draco’s eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise.

“I mean thank you,” Harry repeated, weaker, more a strangled choke than his previous shout. He couldn’t decide which was worse. “But I thought you hated Thai? Remember, you called it ‘nauseating muggle fodder’ that one time I tried to make you have some.”

Draco cleared his throat, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Well. I hardly knew you at the time, did I, it could’ve very well been poison for all I knew.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, delighted to finally see their roles reversed, with Draco the embarrassed one while Harry watched, arms crossed and amused. “We’d lived in the same castle for six years, Draco, you can’t honestly claim you ‘hardly knew me’. Are you sure that’s why you didn’t want any? Not because, oh, I don’t know, you were a snobbish, stuck-up, self-important twat who refused muggle food on principle?”

Draco grimaced faintly, but it looked so ridiculous Harry could only laugh.

“Yes, yes, alright, you win, Potter. My sincerest apologies for being a snobbish, stuck-up, self-important twat.” He shot Harry a half-hearted glare. “Happy now?”

Harry chuckled. “Very.”

And he was. He didn’t know why exactly it hit him at that moment with such clarity, but he really was tremendously happy just standing there in the slightly cramped kitchen of his slightly cramped flat, joking and laughing with the one person he was supposed to be angry at, the one person he _couldn’t_ for the life of him be angry at. To an unnatural extent even: the joy, the thrill, it all felt too large to stay trapped within him, locked in with no way out. He felt like he might just explode with the feel of it, burst with sheer emotion.

But Draco, Harry realised with a pang, wasn’t smiling anymore. He wasn’t even blushing. Instead, he looked almost distressed, chewing on his bottom lip, seemingly deep in thought as he regarded Harry.

Harry blinked. “Yes?”

Had Harry been smiling too much? Laughing too hard? Had Draco seen through him, realised where Harry’s traitorous mind sidled off to in the moments he found himself staring too long, the moments his mind went blank and the fluttery something in his chest grew unignorable?

Christ, Draco wasn’t _like_ him, he’d made that abundantly clear. Harry should’ve known the pureblood part of him would be weirded out, should’ve kept a better grip on himself, on his face, on his emotions, before he went and ruined everything, ruined it like he always did.

But then Draco said, voice uncharacteristically timid, “You said was.”

Harry blinked, perplexed by the sudden and abrupt turnabout. “Sorry, what?”

Draco crossed his arms and looked away, down at his shoes. “You said was. Before, I mean. That I _was_ a snobbish, stuck-up, self-important twat.”

Either Harry had just blacked out à-la-Tom-Riddle’s-diary and missed some important turning point in their conversation that’d make sense of all this, he figured, or Draco had in the last thirty seconds gone completely mental.

Except Harry didn’t particularly like either of those two options, so he said rather pathetically, “Yes? I’m sorry, I didn’t think that’d offend you, I was just—”

Draco snorted and shook his head. “Salazar, Potter, relax. I’m not offended.” His face softened. “Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. Do you really believe that? That I _used_ to be a snobbish, stuck-up, self-important twat? That I’ve…changed?”

And now…well, now Harry was completely bamboozled.

In said thorough and all-consuming bewilderment, he said stupidly, “Sorry mate, but you’re definitely still a proper twat at times. And _of course_ you’re a total snob, you’re _Draco Malfoy._ Stuck-up, too—don’t think that’s ever going to change—plus self-important as all hell, and—” He stopped, then grimaced. “And I should probably shut up now, shouldn’t I?”

“Probably,” Draco said, but he was smiling.

Harry could feel his face heat. Oh god, _why_ had he just said that? How could any part of him have _possibly_ thought that’d be a good idea? And he’d just kept going too, hadn’t he? Stupid, that’s what that’d been, utterly, extraordinarily, outstandingly _stupid_.

“Err,” he tried again, not quite able to look Draco in the eye. “I, uhm. Didn’t actually mean that. Sorry. Tell you the truth, you’re actually a lot nicer than you give yourself credit for. Loads more thoughtful, too, and empathetic, and wicked clever as well. Honestly, I’d never tell Hermione this because I know she’d murder me in my sleep and hide my body where no one would ever find it, but I think you really give her a run for her money. You see, you’re actually quite brilliant, and a mighty good listener, and—”

Harry stopped, feeling, if possible, even _more_ mortified. Good God, what was he _doing_?

Draco’s eyes were sparkling with mirth. “Yes? And?”

And Harry wanted to _die_. Wished Yaxley could hurry it the hell up already and end it there and then, end it before Harry’s face actually burst into flame—because right now that was a real, legitimate possibility, and he didn’t think he could neither physically nor mentally survive any further humiliation.

“And nothing,” he choked out. “Nothing at all.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmm.”

“Yes,” Harry croaked. “Hmm.”

Merlin and Morgana above, someone kill him _now_.

Draco was silent for a few long seconds, and Harry’s heart raced and pounded and stumbled over its own beat, and he wondered dimly when he’d become so absolutely _useless_. He wasn’t normally this flustered around Draco, was he? No, he wasn’t.

Was he?

“Well,” said Draco at long last, and Harry chanced a glance up into his face, only to find the Slytherin’s eyes shining something fierce as they in turn regarded him. “In any case, I suppose I should thank you, then. After all, it’s not every day the Boy Who Lived Twice compliments cold-hearted, corrupt ex-Death-Eaters such as myself.” He said it with a grin, but something in Harry, something deep and fierce and fiery, bristled at the words.

“You’re not,” he said forcefully, embarrassment forgotten, and Draco blinked, startled by the sudden severity of Harry’s tone. “You’re not cold-hearted, and you’re not corrupt, and you’re certainly no Death-Eater, so don’t you even joke about that.”

Draco looked torn, a sort of guilt in his gaze that went bone-deep. “Harry, you don’t know—”

“Yes,” Harry insisted firmly. “Yes, I do. Like it or not, Draco, I know you a lot better than you might care to admit.” He shook his head. “I know you’re neither cruel nor vindictive nor cold-hearted. You’re not even mean, not really, not in your core. I know how you like your coffee, and that you bake when you’re stressed, and that you’d sleep until noon if I didn’t wake you up beforehand. I know that you care about people and protect those you love with a passion, that you can’t help but feel responsible for your mother even though you’re doing the best you can. That you’re just as broken and scared as the rest of us—but at the end of the day, you’re a survivor.” He looked up into those startling silver eyes and said, “I know you better than I do most people, Draco, so believe me when I say you’re _not_.”

And although the fluttery something in his chest had been smothered with fierce determination, with a fire so powerful it took over most of Harry’s mind, the look Draco fixed him with then made him melt just a bit, made his heart skip a beat and his mind go fully and entirely blank.

It was all feasible emotions wrapped in one, all blazing fire and clear, brilliant moonlight, an inferno of unspoken words and uncharted paths and one something so intense, so scorching and glowing and blazing it made it impossible to think, impossible to _breathe_.

Draco looked absolutely radiant, and the smoothness of his cornsilk hair, the softness of his skin, of his expression, they contrasted the intensity of his quicksilver gaze so intensely Harry found it difficult to look away. So he didn’t.

Except, neither did Draco.

“Salazar,” the blond said, and gave a mirthless little laugh, all the while still staring down at Harry as though he might disappear if he so much as blinked.

Harry swallowed, and when he did, he found his mouth entirely dry.

“What is it?”

Draco didn’t answer for a long, long moment. His eyes simply roamed across Harry’s face, taking in every detail with an intensity, a hunger, as though he were seeing him for the very last time and therefore wanted to commit every line, every curve, every patch of skin to memory.

The notion alone sent such a powerful bolt of dread through Harry’s body that he found himself stepping forwards just to show the blond that he could, that he _would_ , that he was right there and would bloody well _stay_ there—for as long as Draco would have him.

“What?” he repeated, softer this time, gentler, and they now stood so close Harry could see every detail of those maddening eyes, the scattered flecks of pale, pale blue, the dark circles surrounding those silver orbs.

The corners of Draco’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, and he shook his head, eyes never leaving Harry’s. “You’re just so bloody beautiful.”

And before Harry could so much as process those words, Draco surged forwards and kissed him.

Now, Harry had been kissed plenty times before, and had done plenty of kissing in return. To be honest, that’s all he and Ginny had done at the beginning of their relationship, when the intensity of it all was still red-hot and blazing, new and untested; they’d stolen away to some quiet, dark corner of the castle where no one and nothing would find them, a blundering mess of lips and teeth and clumsy fingers like teenagers so often were. And Harry’d enjoyed it at the time, sure, but it’d been more experimental than anything, more fumbling and messy than intense and passionate.

Since then, Harry liked to think he’d gotten a lot more skilled in that department. Granted, he had less relationship experience than most everyone else he knew, but he was rather certain that was partially due to the fact that he was Harry Potter, the man with a hundred useless titles, not because he was as undateable as a potato.

But standing there in the dimly-lit kitchen with Draco’s warm lips pressed against his, one of the Slytherin’s hands tilting his chin up, the other at the back of his head, tangled in his hair, Harry completely lost all ability to function. He could only stand there, frozen to the spot, limbs as useless and unresponsive as his brain.

Noticing Harry’s lack of response, Draco pulled back ever so slightly. The space between them was still practically non-existent, nothing but a few hairbreadths separating their foreheads from each other, the tips of their noses nearly touching. But as Draco’s eyes stared into Harry’s, as they roved over his face, searching for something, _anything_ , the disappointment therein, the sadness, the utter _misery_ —it made something crack in Harry’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Draco, strangled and broken. “Oh Merlin, I’m so, so sorry, Harry. I shouldn’t have—”

And be it that broken look or the simple sound of his voice, but something sobered Harry enough to break him out of his temporary daze, and before the Slytherin could say another word, finish an apology he shouldn’t even be making, Harry braved the little space between them and kissed him back.

Draco made a muffled sound somewhere between surprise and delight, and that broke the very last of Harry’s resolve. He melted into the touch, the feel of Draco’s lips on his, of the hand gently cupping his face, and slung his arms around the blond’s neck, pulling him closer, nearer, until there was no space at all left between them, until their chests were touching and Harry could feel the pounding beat of Draco’s heart to match his own.

Draco responded in kind, and the hand previously cradling the back of Harry’s head fisted around a bundle of messy, dark curls, knotting in his hair and sending a pleasant tingle across his scalp. It made Harry gasp ever so slightly, a sound smothered against Draco’s warm lips.

And then Draco’s mouth was moving, opening against his, and Harry lost all sense of logic.

It’d been fun with Ginny, sure, but it was nothing— _nothing_ —when compared to this. Kissing Ginny had been like a flicker of flame, a small, spluttering tealight whose wick was almost burned down, who could be snuffed out with a little puff of air.

_This_ —kissing Draco—it was a bonfire, a forest fire, an inferno of emotions, of passion and need and _affection_. It had an intensity to it Harry had never felt before, and he loved it more than words could possibly describe.

And be it that or the warmth of Draco’s skin against his or just the overwhelming knowledge that _this was happening, he was kissing Draco_ , but Harry couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever felt so happy.

He laughed against Draco’s lips, and Harry could feel the Slytherin’s smile through the kiss, could feel his approving hum as it sent a shiver down Harry’s spine.

And then they were moving—or rather, Draco was moving, stumbling forwards, gently pushing at Harry, goading him to follow suit, and the Gryffindor obliged, staggering backwards until the hard edge of the kitchen counter pressed against his back, where the bags and bags of takeout still sat, untouched.

Draco’s fingers slid through Harry’s hair, teasing and coaxing, and the latter showed his appreciation by pushing up and against him, all the while unable to stop smiling. They stood there and kissed until the outside world completely fell away, until seconds merged into minutes and minutes seemed like hours, until they had no choice but to break apart lest their lungs give out on sheer lack of oxygen.

When they finally did, Harry and Draco both were breathless, panting but simultaneously smiling so wide it was a wonder their faces didn’t collapse under the strain.

Harry stared up at Draco, and finally, there it was, a name for that ‘something’ he’d been feeling all day, that pesky little ‘something’ he’d found kicking about in his chest so many times before when he looked to Draco, when he found the Slytherin smiling at a joke he’d made or discussing some German potioneer whose work he was a fan of, or even just sitting by the fireplace in his designated armchair, reading with that adorable little crinkle between his eyebrows.

That wasn’t hatred, or anger, or even pain—that was affection, pure and deep and all-consuming.

Harry stared up into Draco’s bottomless eyes, and perhaps it was because his mind was still covered in a thick haze and thus effectively useless, or maybe just because Harry was Harry, the biggest idiot in the world, but he found himself saying weakly, “But…you were homophobic.”

He immediately wanted to kick himself, especially when Draco asked, “I beg your pardon?” He sounded affronted, too, and Harry briefly feared he’d just completely ruined their moment. Except there was still that little dazed smile playing across Draco’s vividly pink lips, and he chuckled slightly as he said, “What about _that_ gave you the impression I was homophobic?”

Harry could feel his cheeks start to burn. “With Nic. You completely flipped when I told you we were going on a date. I don’t know, I just figured—”

“Harry.” Draco looked at him long and hard, tone so serious Harry had to do a double-take. “Harry, in case you haven’t realised it yet, I’m very, very gay.”

“Yeah, I, uhm…gathered as much,” Harry mumbled, and he tried to look away—except when you’re sandwiched in between the kitchen counter and the one person you’re trying very hard not to look at, your options are fairly limited. “I’m bi.”

“Yes,” said Draco dryly, but he was grinning again, a beam so huge and bright it made Harry’s heart melt all over again. “I gathered as much.”

A charged, hair-raising silence descended upon them, and the tension in the air seemed to double every further second Harry stared into Draco’s eyes and Draco stared into Harry’s, locked in a staring competition neither dared break.

“But then,” Harry said—or rather, croaked, because suddenly his throat felt awfully constricted, “why did you lose it when I told you I was going on a date with Nic?”

Draco sent him a deadpan look and said wryly, “Gee, Harry, I don’t know. Make a wild guess, will you?”

Harry furrowed his brow in confusion. Was it that obvious? No, it couldn’t be, because the obvious answer would’ve been homophobia, which was clearly not the case here. Harry thought about all the times he’d had the misfortune to witness an encounter between the two of them, remembered that very first altercation between Nic and Draco at the pub, or the day Nic had come over with his beignets to apologise, or earlier today—

Wait a second.

“Blimey,” he gasped. “You were _jealous_ , weren’t you!”

Draco snorted. “You really are lucky you’re so easy on the eyes. Because, let me tell you, love, you’re about as observant as a blind flobberworm.”

And Harry didn’t even take offense at that less-than-desirable comparison, because Draco had called him _love_ , and didn’t that just make his heart soar.

“I am sorry, though,” Draco said suddenly, and when Harry looked back up into his face, the Slytherin wasn’t looking him in the eye anymore, gaze instead fixed on the curl of Harry’s hair he was currently busy twirling around his finger. “For all I said. You were right, Yaxley’d riled me up, and when I came home to see him there with you, when you told me you two were going on a date…well, I really did lose it, didn’t I? My reaction was unfair, I know, and I’m truly sorry for that. I shouldn’t have said those things. I’ll…do better in future, okay? If…” He swallowed hard, still not looking at Harry. “If you’ll give me the chance to.”

Something inside Harry burst at those words, at the tenderness behind them, the fear. Because that’s what Draco was, wasn’t it—he was afraid, afraid Harry wouldn’t want him, afraid he, Draco Malfoy, wasn’t good enough after all.

And the fact that he could ever, _ever_ believe that, something so wrong, so untrue—it made Harry’s heart break for the blond, break and melt all over again.

“Draco,” he said gently, then again when the blond still wouldn’t look at him, still wore that horrible, miserable expression that cinched something in Harry’s chest. “ _Draco_. Look at me.”

But he wouldn’t, and so Harry reached up and tilted the other man’s chin until he had no choice _but_ to look him in the eye, until grey met green for the millionth time and everything else fell away.

“I’m going to be honest with you now, okay?”

He waited patiently for Draco to nod, and when he did, the look on the Slytherin’s face, so full of that same fear, that same brokenness, it settled something for Harry.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” he repeated, but it was nothing more than a whisper, as soft as the touch with which he tucked a stray lock of silver-blond behind one of Draco’s ears. “Because you deserve to hear the truth. It’s true, I used to hate you. I used to think you were the most arrogant, cruel, horrid arsehole I’d ever had the misfortune of meeting, and that’s saying a lot seeing as my cousin Dudley practically tortured me up until I entered Hogwarts at age eleven.”

The Slytherin made a muffled little sound of surprise, eyes widening ever so slightly in alarm. But Harry just held up a hand, and Draco didn’t interrupt.

“As a matter of fact, all my living relatives are terrible people, and they treated me horribly. To be honest, I think that’s one of the reasons I disliked you so; after all, here I’d been, alone and clueless, at Hogwarts for the first time, entering into this beautiful new world of possibilities, so sure I’d left all the bullying behind me, so sure this place with all its wonderful, magical people would be better,” Harry said. “Then I met you. In a way, you reminded me of them, and I hated you for it.

“All throughout our time at school, you made my life a living hell. You insulted me whenever you could, called my best friends horrible names, made me feel as though, even in a world of magic, of people like me—even there, I didn’t belong.”

Draco looked pained. “Harry…”

“No,” he said, perhaps a tad too forcefully. Draco gave a slight wince, and Harry’s heart twisted at the sight. He gently reached up to cup the Slytherin’s face. “No. Please, listen.”

Draco hesitated, but then nodded again.

“You were horrible, and I used to hate you,” continued Harry, and paused. “But that’s just it. I _used_ to hate you. I _used_ to think you were cruel, callous, as narrow-minded as the people I’d grown up despising. But then I got to know you, Draco, and I wasn’t kidding when I said earlier that you are brilliant. You are kind, you are considerate, you are caring—and, most importantly of all, you are _strong_. That’s something I would have never said about the smarmy little git I met back in First Year.” He shrugged. “Sure, you’ve made mistakes in the past, but who hasn’t? The point is, you’ve long since recognised them as such and have made damn sure to atone for them. You asked me earlier whether I think you’ve changed. The answer is, yes, of course you have. And now that I know you—the _real_ you—I couldn’t hate you if I tried.”

Draco’s eyes studied him for what felt like an eternity, gaze flickering over his face, and the blond swallowed hard, making his Adam’s apple bob faintly, eyes all the while glistening in the dim lighting.

“Not even after all the horrible things I said? After I ruined your date?”

Harry chuckled. “No, not even after all the horrible things you said. And, to be perfectly frank—” He draped his arms back around the Slytherin’s neck and leaned forwards to plant a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. “—I’m quite glad you ruined my date.”

The blond smiled, and it was a smile of such pure joy that Harry found his heart stumbling a beat and his own lips tugging upwards into a gigantic grin—a grin that only grew when Draco repaid the favour with a deeper, much longer kiss that had Harry’s insides writhing like a bundle of flobberworms.

When they broke apart again, Draco didn’t go far, instead settling his forehead against Harry’s and whispering with a mischievous, oh-so-Slytherin smirk, the sort that made his eyes dance and flicker like two licks of silver flame, “To be perfectly frank, so am I.”

Harry shook his head and batted him away half-heartedly, except he couldn’t help but laugh, and Draco was still standing in the way, effectively trapping the Gryffindor between the kitchen counter and himself. And so, whatever feeble resistance Harry might have meant to put up, it was effectively brought to an end when Draco’s lips crashed back into his, protests fading away and out of mind within a split-second.

Harry drew back abruptly, lips still tingling faintly, and said weakly, “But the Thai…”

Draco didn’t miss a beat. “Later,” he all but growled.

“But—”

“ _Later_.”

And Harry didn’t protest any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there. Our two idiots finally got over themselves...only took them about 90k words.  
> Anyway, seeing as Christmas'll be over by the time I update next, I'd just like to wish all of you wonderful people a merry Christmas and a happy New Year!! 2021 has got to be better than 2020, right?  
> Hope everyone enjoyed this little pre-Christmas present xD  
> Lots of love, stay safe and healthy  
> ~Angelica


	18. surprise surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter goes out to my best friend's homophobic parents--feel the wrath of the rainbow :))  
> As always, y'all are amazing. Seriously, thank you so much for sticking by this story; we're almost 100k in, with nearly 400 kudos and 200 comments and almost (almost) 10000 hits. You have no idea how grateful I am for every single one of you, y'all are literally the best.  
> Enjoy!

Draco Malfoy was not a morning person. That was a truth one could always rely on, for it was as much a fact of life as the earth orbiting around the sun or eleven-year-old witches and wizards getting their acceptance letters to Hogwarts.

And yet, when he awoke on Tuesday morning, he awoke smiling—and that, in all the twenty years of mornings he’d experienced thus far in his life, was a definite first.

Draco awoke smiling, and he got up and out of bed without missing a beat, and he pulled on his clothes humming a French lullaby his mother had always sung to him as a child.

For he was no morning person, and that was a fact.

However, he’d also kissed Harry Potter the evening before, and Harry Potter had kissed him back. Multiple times.

And, the thing is, _that_ was a fact as well.

Now, Draco was not a romantic, just so that’s clear. Yes, admittedly, he enjoyed sappy romance novels and old muggle ‘Rom-Coms’ (Pansy’s doing, suffice to say) just as much as the next person. But that was it. He was a firm realist, as all Malfoys ought to be, for it was no good dwelling on dreams and fantasies when you had an estate to run.

Except…Harry had _let Draco kiss him_. And then he’d _kissed him back_.

He still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it all, if only because it still felt too surreal to be true. And how could it be, after all the years Draco had spent wishing for it to happen? After all the years of knowing Harry hated him, so it’d always have to stay just that—a fantasy?

Because he was a _Malfoy_ , and as all Malfoys ought to be, he was a firm realist, for it was no good dwelling on dreams and fantasies when you had an estate to run.

Except Lucius, who had been no doubt the most model Malfoy to ever impose his foul presence upon the world—rich, influential, and all-round unpleasant, cold-hearted monster—was in prison, without a family to hark back to, without friends, without even his precious estate. And Draco didn’t know much about his future, but he sure as hell knew he wasn’t going to end up like that.

So, really, sod all that.

Because _Draco had kissed Harry, and Harry had kissed him back_.

“Are you going to tell me what it is you’re thinking or just continue to stare at me?”

Draco started at the words, nearly dropping the steaming mug of tea currently clasped in his hands. Across the kitchen, the object of his affections regarded Draco with an amused twinkle in those green eyes of his, head all the while tilted to the side.

For the millionth time, Draco found himself wondering how a person could look so utterly stunning in a worn t-shirt and a faded, grey pair of sweatpants. Not to mention the state of Harry’s hair; it was, if possible, even more of a mess than usual, looking as though he’d only just rolled out of bed. Which, in all honesty, likely wasn’t far from the truth.

Except the hair suited him, and even the shabby muggle clothes were so inherently _Harry_ Draco really didn’t mind them one bit.

Plus, with a smile like that, the type that could light up even the darkest of rooms, soften even the hardest of hearts, bring warmth to even the coldest of days—with a smile like that, who cared about the rest.

Harry looked so breathtakingly gorgeous that it took all Draco’s self-control to not immediately sprint across the room and snog him senseless, until the air in his lungs ran out. Which was actually, truly, genuinely something he could _do_ now, do and not immediately have to fear he’d ruined things, fear Harry would never want to see him again because he didn’t reciprocate his feelings.

Quite the contrary, Draco knew that, while Harry didn’t love him, not yet, there were undoubtedly feelings of some sort there—otherwise Harry wouldn’t have allowed yesterday to happen. And that knowledge alone was enough to make him burst into a smile all over again.

“What?” Harry asked, one eyebrow lifted in amused suspicion as he watched Draco gently set down his cup of tea and stand from where he’d indeed been sitting the last few minutes, deep in thought, staring at Harry because…

Well.

Draco’s smile widened another fraction.

Because he _could_.

The Slytherin took all the time in the world as he sauntered around the kitchen island to where Harry still stood watching him expectantly, his face all the while unreadable and hopefully not betraying how very much his chest constricted at the mere sight of his soulmate.

“You know what,” he said, wrapping his arms around the Gryffindor, “I think I’ll go with option two and just continue to stare at you.”

Red blossomed across Harry’s cheeks, and the sight alone made Draco melt just a little inside. Melt, because _he_ had caused that blush, that self-conscious little flicker, that small but impossibly radiant smile.

“I—you—hmm.”

If at all possible, Harry flushed even darker, and he averted his eyes, mouth twitching at the corners as though it couldn’t quite decide whether it’d rather form a frown, a grimace or a smile.

“Hmm?” repeated Draco, one eyebrow lifted questioningly. And, yes, alright, he knew he really shouldn’t be taking such pleasure in this, in watching Harry squirm, not when the Gryffindor could not be more evidently uncomfortable. But he was, after all, still a Slytherin at heart, so really, who could blame him?

He tutted. “Such an unparalleled way with words. Truly, love, you have the eloquence of a poet.”

At this, Harry’s lips finally settled on one singular expression—mainly, a scowl. Except he was still blushing furiously, so the whole effort was rather futile from the start, and Draco could only grin wider.

“Oh, sod right off,” Harry grumbled petulantly. Only he still hadn’t made any efforts to shake free of Draco’s loose embrace, so the latter didn’t fret much. “You’re evil, you know that? _Evil_. And here I thought boyfriends were supposed to be all loving and supportive. Serves me right for assuming, I guess.”

Draco went very, very still—so very still, in fact, he wasn’t entirely certain he was still breathing. His chest certainly felt tight enough, and the silence engulfing the kitchen was suddenly so thick and impenetrable one could have heard a pin drop.

Except breathing and everything else suddenly became secondary, trivial, a minor side issue when compared to the situation at hand. When compared to _what Harry had just said_. The one word Draco had not let himself use, not let himself utter, not even let himself _think_ about, lest he get his hopes up.

But Harry had just _said_ it, so easily and without thought, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

When Draco had been silent for what could’ve been mere seconds and just as easily several minutes, Harry looked up. He’d been anxious enough as it was, but the moment his emerald eyes locked onto Draco’s, his cheeks took on the deepest, darkest crimson yet, so vividly red the Gryffindor could have blended in with the walls.

“Oh God,” he said, although it was more a combination between a strangled laugh and a horrified gasp. “Is that not what we—” He averted his eyes once more, looking to the floor instead. “Shit, okay, I, uhm…sorry, I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions or anything. I just assumed—and, Christ, I didn’t actually ask you, did I? Whether we—whether you wanted—bloody _hell_.”

Harry looked so frazzled, so utterly _panicked_ that the sight of it managed to tear Draco out of his momentary stupor. And as he looked at his soulmate, with his messy hair and crooked glasses and bright, bright red cheeks, all he could think was:

How the hell had he ever gotten so damn lucky?

He leaned forwards and pressed the softest of kisses onto Harry’s lips, light and chaste, the exact opposite of all the confessional, claiming ones of the evening before. The latter started in surprise, green eyes wide as they lifted to Draco’s, but once again he didn’t pull away, not even a fraction of an inch.

“Harry,” said Draco gently, his gaze never straying from his soulmate’s. He lifted a tentative hand to brush a stray lock of hair from the other’s forehead. “ _Of course_ I want to be your boyfriend.”

Harry blinked, looking equal measures surprised and relieved and…touched? Merlin’s beard, Draco didn’t have the emotional capacity to handle this.

“You do?” the Gryffindor asked, as though this answer came as a genuine shock to him.

Draco breathed a laugh. “Salazar, Harry, _yes_. Yes, I do. So, so much. Fuck, you honestly have no idea, do you?”

Harry was still looking at him with those stupidly endearing doe eyes of his. “No idea of what?”

‘Why, that I’ve been in love with you since we were eleven, of course’?

‘That you drive me absolutely crazy’?

‘That I have your name inked into my wrist’?

‘That you’re my soulmate’?

Those were all true, suitable responses, and Draco knew he should just pull himself together and tell Harry already, get over his irrational fears and confess to the one person he wanted to tell the truth to most.

Except Draco was a coward, always had been, always would be, and so, needless to say, he didn’t use a single one of those replies.

Instead, Draco simply planted another kiss on Harry’s mouth. “Of anything, really.”

Harry chuckled, a grin curling across his face despite his best efforts, already replacing the blush, and Draco was immediately glad he’d gone with that answer. Yet the multitude of unspoken truths still curled around his mind, unwilling to release their talons from his thoughts, always there, looming.

But, Draco figured, it was a small price to pay when he could get Harry to smile like _that_ , to laugh and feel as though, if only for a moment, their world was simple and straightforward and not as complex a mess as it truly was.

“You know, I’m actually pretty sure boyfriends _have_ to be loving and supportive,” said Harry, looping his own arms around Draco’s neck. “It might even be a law of some sort. Just saying—if I were you, I’d try being nicer to me.”

Draco snorted. “And wherever would be the fun in that? Not to mention, I feel like this so-called law of yours should at least extend both ways, it’s hardly fair if—”

He was rudely silenced by a pair of warm, soft lips on his. Except Draco really didn’t mind, quite the contrary, and so within a fraction of a second he was kissing back, the words that had been previously on the tip of his tongue vanished into thin air, out of sight and out of mind.

And then they were full-out snogging again, just as fiercely, just as spellbindingly as they had the evening before, and it left Draco’s mind a wreck, an unsalvageable, wonderful wreck full of joy and excitement and love—so, so much love, except that was the one thing he couldn’t let Harry see, not yet, not when all of this was so new.

One day soon he would.

But right now was not that day.

Right now, all Draco wanted to do was kiss his soulmate—and if, in the process, he managed to forget the rest of the world existed, then all the better.

It was perhaps seconds or minutes or years later that the Floo sounded in the living room, a long string of curses promptly following.

Draco and Harry had a split second to jump apart, before the kitchen door flew open with a resounding bang and in marched one dishevelled but determined looking Ronald Weasley and one scowling, particularly terrifying Hermione Granger.

The moment their eyes found Harry, the two of them froze.

Harry lifted a hand in a little wave, smiling sheepishly as his two best friends stared at him in unconcealed shock. “Err…hi?”

Draco felt the overwhelming urge to either faceplant or, once again, smother the idiot in kisses—but, by some miracle, he managed to restrain himself, if only just barely.

And good that, too, for it was mere seconds later that Weasley came storming across the kitchen without any prior warning whatsoever, glare latched onto Harry, with the rest of him following seconds later.

Now, after the whole Nic-fiasco, Draco could readily admit he was perhaps just a tad bit protective. He wouldn’t necessarily say he was ‘the jealous type’, but as Harry’s boyfriend—Salazar, the word still felt surreal, even in his head—he reckoned he was allowed at least a little overprotectiveness.

But watching Harry get practically strangled by the ginger’s fierce bear-hug, emerald eyes practically bulging out of their sockets as he mouthed at Draco over Weasley’s bony shoulder ‘Help me’—all Draco could do when faced with that image was laugh.

Harry shot him a betrayed glare, which only made Draco laugh harder.

However, before Harry could shoot anything back, Weasley pulled away, hands all the while still gripping Harry’s forearms so strongly Draco was fairly certain that’d leave bruises.

“Harry,” said Weasley. “You’re not dead. Oh, thank _Merlin_.”

And then he pulled Harry into yet another bone-crushing hug.

“Ron,” Harry wheezed. “You’re suffocating me, mate. Ease up, will you?”

Weasley obliged, but he only drew back a step, eyes all the while never straying from his best mate’s face for even a second, as though afraid he might vanish in a puff of smoke if he did—and before Harry could so much as inhale, one particularly frizzy-haired Hermione had already flung herself into his recently-vacated arms.

A muffled ‘uff’ escaped Harry, but Hermione didn’t seem to care.

“You absolute _arse_!” she exclaimed, withdrawing just enough to level an especially scathing glare at Harry, the type that had even Draco wincing from across the room. “Do you have _any_ idea how worried we were? You can’t just do that, Harry, leave without telling anyone where you’d gone, especially not at a time like this! How is it you still can’t get into that thick, thick skull of yours that _this is serious_! It’s not some game! Yaxley could have _murdered_ you. And _you_!”

She pivoted, turning her withering glower on Draco, who in turn froze like a deer in headlights, laugh dying in his throat.

“I’m curious,” the brunette said, tone as icy as her glower. “Is there a reason, pray tell, why no one at the Ministry was informed that Harry had returned to the apartment and not, as we were led to believe, died a horrible death at the hands of one escaped Corban Yaxley? If so, please do enlighten us, I’d _love_ to hear the story.”

Draco blinked pathetically.

Oh.

_Oh._

Well fuck.

He donned his most inscrutable expression, schooling his features into calm unreadability. Because while there certainly had been a very good reason why Draco hadn’t been able to inform the Ministry, he was fairly certain Harry’s face would actually burst into flames if Draco now went and recounted the details for his boyfriend’s best mates to hear. And he happened to like Harry’s face quite a lot, so that was not an option.

Instead, Draco cleared his throat and said, “Yes, well, it might have slipped my mind. But, as you can see, Potter is fine, so no harm done.”

Except, on second thought, perhaps this hadn’t been the wisest course of action either.

Draco knew the instant he’d uttered those words that he was a dead man, and, indeed, Hermione’s glare became feral.

“No. Harm. Done.” Her voice was like steel on steel, grating and unforgiving. “ _No harm done_?! That’s the best you can come up with, Malfoy?”

Draco weakly hoped she’d at least grant him the mercy of a quick and mostly painless death—he’d take Avada Kedavra over an Entrail-Expelling hex any day of the week. Judging by the glint in Hermione’s eyes, however, he knew it was a futile hope.

“It was my fault, really.”

Three heads and six eyes swivelled to face Harry, all equally shocked by the sudden outburst.

But Harry didn’t let that dissuade him. “Look, I know I shouldn’t have left without telling someone where I’d gone. Thing is, Draco and I sort of had a row beforehand, so I wasn’t overly keen to talk to him. So. There’s that.” He winced apologetically. “I’ll do better next time?”

For a few tense moments, Hermione’s glare remained unyielding as it drilled its way straight through Harry with about as much benevolence as a sword through the heart.

But then, eventually, she sighed, glower softening into a mildly irritated frown. “You’d better, Harry. I mean it.” But the words lost all their menace when she once again wrapped her arms around her would-be victim, pressing her face into Harry’s neck and said, “But I’m really glad you’re not dead, too.”

Harry visibly deflated and returned the hug without hesitation, a small, affectionate smile playing across his lips. “Thanks, Mione. Love you too.”

The softness of the image, the pure affection swirling in those emerald green eyes—it sent a warm, serene sort of feeling through Draco, the type that reminded him of the many weekends spent outside by the Great Lake, enjoying the warm rays of sun and pleasant breeze as it gusted through his hair, laying in the grass and listening to Pansy recount the latest gossip, or Blaise rant about whichever essay they had due the next Monday.

It had been in those types of days that Draco had found true happiness, when schoolwork and popularity were the biggest of his worries—happiness the likes of which he hadn’t been able to find before or since.

Except, no, that wasn’t true anymore. Perhaps a month ago he could have still claimed that, but certainly not now. Call him vapid or cliched or overly sentimental, but even with all that was going on, with Yaxley on the loose and his mother slowly wasting away and the most oblivious moron of all time stuck as his soulmate—even then, looking at Harry now and being able to confidently say _that’s my boyfriend_ …

Draco couldn’t remember a time in the past nine years that he’d ever felt happier.

Needless to say, it hadn’t been a conscious decision on Draco’s part to stare, so when he caught Weasley watching him with furrowed brows and a small, if not necessarily hostile frown, he immediately wanted to kick himself.

He did what he had always done in situations like these, when something or someone threatened to undermine him or expose a vulnerability he couldn’t let slip; he straightened his spine, narrowed his eyes and sneered at the ginger, “Something the matter, Weasley?”

The man’s answering scowl was immediate, and Draco found himself silently pleased at how easily and effectively he’d distracted the redhead with only a single vaguely snide comment.

Weasley opened his mouth to no doubt snap some mediocrely insulting comeback. “As a matter of fact, Malfoy, why don’t you—”

But before he could finish, Hermione shot him a warning look over her shoulder. He stopped midsentence and frowned but, in a rare moment of wisdom, immediately closed his mouth again with nothing but a small, petulant huff.

Weasley grumbled, “Whatever. While we’re here, you should know Robards wanted to see you, Malfoy. Didn’t say why, but I reckon it’ll have something to do with the case.”

Draco blinked, surprised, sneer forgotten. “He did?”

Weasley nodded. “Yeah, wouldn’t tell me why exactly, but it sounded important.” A small, bitterly triumphant smile curled across his mouth. “Who knows, maybe he’s kicking you off the case.”

Hermione immediately whacked him on the arm and started scolding her boyfriend, which in turn had Weasley scowling but ultimately muttering a half-hearted apology. But Draco wasn’t paying attention anymore, too deep in thought to care.

He couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or worried. On the one hand, this could mean Robards was finally heeding Draco’s requests for a more active role in the case, one that didn’t have him fretting all day about when, where and how Yaxley might strike next, left completely in the dark.

But on the other hand—and this was the option that quickly consumed most of his thoughts—Weasley could easily be right. Perhaps this _was_ Robards’ way of kicking him off the case entirely. After all, forgetting to inform the Ministry of Harry’s wellbeing yesterday had been a big mistake on his part. Plus, it’s not like Draco had been doing a bang-up job as Harry’s bodyguard either; both times Yaxley had struck, someone had ended up in the hospital. Both times, Harry had gotten hurt.

The notion of being kicked off the case sent a surge of pure dread racing through Draco’s entire body, from his head to his stomach all the way to his toes. He couldn’t get kicked off, not now, not when Harry still _needed_ him here, not when there was no guarantee the next stranger assigned to his side would do whatever it took to make sure he stayed safe.

Draco—he could do that. He _would_ do that, would stay by Harry’s side and duel Yaxley a thousand times over if that’s what it took to protect him.

Some random, unknown stranger, on the other hand…

No. He pursed his lips. No, that simply wasn’t an option.

Draco turned to Hermione. “If I head over to the Ministry now, I trust you’ll stay here?”

Hermione, bless her, didn’t hesitate even a fraction of a second before nodding.

But Weasley frowned. “You can’t go _now_. Robards’s off trying to identify Yaxley’s accomplice. Thinks they’re the ones to have broken him out this time around, too. He’ll be busy the rest of the day.”

He said it as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, all the while frowning at Draco with something similar to distrust, but less hostile and more…curious.

It was the second time the man had looked at Draco like that, as if he _knew_ something, something he was very decidedly not supposed to know—for Circe’s sakes, this was _Ronald Weasley_ , the second most oblivious person in the world! And it made Draco want to yell at the carrot-capped buffoon so, so bad, yell and punch that infuriatingly curious look off his freckled face.

Because knowing Robards wanted to see him for some mysterious reason regarding the case was bad enough. However, having to _wait_ to find out what this mysterious reason was was decidedly worse—for there was no doubt in Draco’s mind he’d be stressing over it the whole entire day, stressing and wondering whether this would be the last day before he was kicked off the case and reassigned, the last day spent in this chaotic, atrociously red apartment he’d only just started calling home, the last day he’d have with the idiotic, foolish, ridiculous, perfect man who it seemed was now his boyfriend.

So, _no_ , on top of all that, Draco simply did not have the energy to deal with one Ronald sodding Weasley.

However, Draco did not, in fact, yell at Weasley, nor did he attack him or so much as snap at the man again. Instead, Draco merely clenched his jaw—very, very hard.

Honestly, Harry had better shower him with kisses later, because under the narrow-eyed, painfully blatant stare Weasley was currently fixing him with, not tackling the oaf then and there was likely the biggest show of restraint Draco had ever exhibited.

The ginger’s only redeeming quality was, of course, the fact that (for some bizarre, inexplicable reason) Hermione Granger was his girlfriend, and so, as was so often the case, she jumped in just in time to prevent an actual fistfight.

“Right then,” she said, looping one arm through that of her fiancé (again, inexplicable). “Now that we know Harry’s back safe and sound, we’d better head off. I’ve a meeting in an hour, as does Ronald here, though I have no doubt he wouldn’t mind missing it.”

Weasley grumbled unintelligibly, effectively proving her point.

“It was good seeing you,” Harry said. “Promise me you’ll send a Patronus the moment they have news on Yaxley’s whereabouts?”

“’Course, mate,” replied Weasley. “The very second.”

Harry smiled gratefully, pulling both his best friends into another hug. The soft smile curling across his lips was enough to momentarily distract Draco from the sea of worries currently churning away in his gut, if only for a brief second.

The three Gryffindors broke apart, and then Hermione took her boyfriend’s hand and led him out the kitchen in what could only be described as a brisk walk.

Hermione didn’t speak to Draco, didn’t even glance at him for longer than a second as she and Weasley passed him on their way out of the kitchen. But in that split-second that her eyes met his, the knowing look and message woven therein could not have been more obvious:

‘You’re welcome.’

Draco couldn’t help but snort incredulously as Hermione and Weasley disappeared through the kitchen door, exiting the flat seconds later in a hiss of flame.

“What?” asked Harry, and Draco turned to see him standing in the exact spot he’d left him, arms crossed, looking disastrously handsome in all his early-morning glory, a gentle smile coasting across his lips as he regarded Draco with what could only be interpreted as affection.

And suddenly Draco’s heart felt constricted again, as though some invisible pair of hands had reached right inside his chest and started kneading it like dough, pulling and prodding and twisting it in the most unnatural of ways.

No, he _could not_ leave Harry. He could not, and he would not.

Because if something ever happened to that man, with his soft smiles and twinkling eyes and horrible case of bedhead—Draco would never ever _ever_ forgive himself for it.

He strode across the kitchen, steps large and purposeful, and before either of them could so much as utter another word, he had captured Harry’s face in his hands and was kissing him again, kissing him with all the intensity of the unsaid words and unspoken emotions crowding his head, the chaotic mess of thoughts and fears and worries pushing and shoving at him and refusing to let go.

Blaise had been right; it wasn’t just Draco and Harry, even though it sure as hell felt like that sometimes—it was Draco and Harry and the rest of the world, and in said world, things often weren’t controllable, not by anyone, regardless of power, fame or standing.

But this, right here, right now, kissing the man he loved—it was one thing he could control, one thing the outside world could not take away. Harry may not yet realise the scope of Draco’s feelings, may not understand how serious the situation already was, but _this_ , this was the one way Draco might show him, the one way that didn’t require formulating some great big speech, trying to find a way to express something that was simply too vast for words.

Harry made the same sort of surprised little gasp he had the evening before. But instead of freezing up, shocked and caught off guard, this time he kissed back immediately and without hesitation. His hands fisted around the collar of Draco’s shirt, pulling him closer closer closer, and the latter was more than happy to oblige, one hand on the counter behind Harry as he leaned in, the other at the back of the Gryffindor’s neck.

They were positioned almost exactly like the evening before, and Draco might have even pointed out the similarities to Harry if both their mouths weren’t currently so otherwise engaged.

Harry pulled back ever so slightly, and Draco followed, although admittedly dismayed their snogging session had ended so abruptly. It was true, he would have loved snogging Harry even if the man were a disastrous kisser—except, as it turned out, he was actually rather brilliant at it. To the point that Draco might just have to thank Ginevra Weasley the next time their paths crossed.

Salazar, he thought wryly, wouldn’t that be a hilarious image.

“Hey,” said Harry softly, those dazzling green eyes of his already combing over Draco’s face, tone gentle but indisputably worried. “What’s wrong?”

Draco was sure his ribcage cracked a bit under that mesmerising gaze, under the concern therein, and he pushed the crushing intensity of it into another dizzying kiss.

“Does something have to be wrong for me to want to kiss my boyfriend?” he said and began a trail of kisses down the Gryffindor’s jaw, his neck, his collarbone.

“No,” Harry bit out. He didn’t, however, pull away or make any signs of dissent, so Draco continued peppering him with kisses, one for every day he’d spent wishing he could but ultimately refraining.

“ _But_ ,” Harry continued, “remember what we established yesterday: I _know_ you. I can tell when something’s wrong. Like right now, for example.”

And then the twat really did pull away, looking irritatingly sombre all of a sudden with his soft frown and soft gaze and soft furrow between his brows. Except, at the same time, Harry also looked irritatingly gorgeous, so Draco couldn’t actually be annoyed with the git.

“Hey,” Harry said again, a hand lifting up to cup Draco’s jaw. The latter, weak sod that he was, instinctively leaned into the touch, feeling his resolve crumble under that vivid green gaze he’d come to adore so. “No judgement, remember? I promised you you could tell me anything and I would never think badly of you for it, didn’t I?” Harry smiled. “I intend to keep that promise.”

Salazar, Draco thought as his eyes studied his soulmate’s face, the perfect imperfection of it—Harry was too good for him. Because that’s what he was, _all_ he was: good, truly and completely, down to his very core. He was practically _made_ of it, of kindness and compassion and warmth and love, had those traits woven into his DNA, his magic, his very existence.

Draco didn’t deserve Harry. No one did, no one and nothing, not him, not the Wizarding World, not the cruel, harsh reality they’d been thrust into without a bloody choice in the matter.

He brushed a strand of hair from Harry’s forehead and looked at him, and before he could make the active decision to do so, his thoughts had formed words, words that promptly tumbled out of his mouth in a small, strangled whisper.

“I don’t deserve you.”

If possible, Harry’s expression softened even more.

“Don’t be daft, Draco. Of course you do.”

He said it with such conviction, such certitude, that Draco almost believed him. Almost.

“If anyone isn’t deserving here, it’s me of you. Haven’t you forgotten, you’re a Malfoy! The best of the best, purest of the pure, most superior of the superior. You’re practically wizarding royalty. An arrogant, pretentious toff through and through.” Harry grinned, dropping his hand long enough to squeeze Draco’s. “Except I wouldn’t have it any other way, because you’re _my_ arrogant, pretentious toff.”

It was a ploy to lift his spirits, and Draco immediately recognised it as such. But it only strengthened his conviction, because what was Harry doing trying to cheer him up, make things right when he had never done anything wrong? What was Harry doing trying to make him smile?

But, damn him, it worked.

“No,” he said, unable to stop his lips from curving upwards at the smile Harry wore. “No, I really don’t deserve you. Didn’t anyone ever tell you? You’re as radiant as the sun, love.”

And then he kissed Harry again, only this time it wasn’t heated and desperate and bruising, but instead slow and tender and affectionate. And although the first had been undeniably intense, it was this second, gentler kiss that sent a surge of pure adoration running through Draco’s entire body, that held all the unrestrained emotion the first never could.

And it was that second kiss that first Weasley, and then seconds later Hermione walked in on, and then promptly froze dead in their tracks, eyes wide, mouths agape.

Or at least Weasley did. If Draco weren’t at that moment so preoccupied with his boyfriend, he might have laughed at the Weasel’s truly comical expression.

But Hermione, on the other hand…Hermione looked smug.

When a few long seconds later Harry finally noticed they were no longer alone in the kitchen, his eyes went almost as wide as Weasley’s and he gasped and jumped backwards. Or he would have, were his mouth not still pressed against Draco’s and his escape route not effectively blocked by the kitchen counter.

Draco, however, took pity on the man and broke the kiss, backing away to give Harry room to flee, if he so desired. Honestly, Draco wouldn’t have been surprised if he actually did try to flee, that’s how panicked the Gryffindor looked.

Hermione was grinning now, the triumphant sort Draco had seen more than enough times back at Hogwarts, when a teacher praised her for knowing the answer or she got full marks on an exam. Back then, he’d hated her, and he’d hated her grin.

Now, though, Draco was rather certain he liked it.

“Finally,” she said, crossing her arms. “Took you long enough. I was beginning to fear the both of you would never get over yourselves.”

Beside her, Weasley opened his mouth, looking properly spooked. No doubt to give some utterly moronic comment, because there was no filter in between the man’s brain and mouth.

Except then he promptly shut his mouth again, shook his head once and then said, tone incredibly weary, “I should have seen this coming, shouldn’t I?”

Draco grinned and answered, because Harry was obviously still too mortified to do so, “Yes. Yes, you should have.”

“Honestly,” Weasley continued, sounding utterly exhausted, as though Harry and Draco had singlehandedly taken ten years off his life, “I guess I sort of did. I’m not sure why I’m even surprised right now, you were both extremely obvious about it. Bloody _hell_. Harry’s dating Malfoy.” His gaze snapped back up, eyes narrowing. “You _are_ dating, right?”

He looked and sounded almost threatening, a warning in all but words, eyes drilling into Draco’s as though daring him to refuse, to play it all off as a simple fling or dalliance.

Now, Draco had never been especially fond of the second youngest Weasley before. But right then, seeing the fierce protectiveness glinting in the ginger’s blue eyes, the undying loyalty to Harry, who deserved all the love and affection in the world…

Right then, Draco almost wanted to hug the pea-brained git. He reached out for Harry’s hand and grinned even wider, if such a thing was even possible at this point. “Sure are.”

Fortunately, before such demeaning urges could be acted upon, Weasley turned to Hermione, eyes accusatory. “You knew, didn’t you?”

At her nod, he groaned into his hands. “All this time, you knew, and yet that time I asked you whether you thought Malfoy was acting weird around Harry, you still didn’t tell me?! Why, I should break up with you on the spot. Hear that? It’s over. The wedding’s off. I’m sorry, I just can’t be with someone who won’t tell me when my best mate’s dating the biggest arsehole alive.” He sent Draco a look, not quite apologetic but not exactly hostile either.

“No offense, of course. Though it’s true.”

Draco shrugged. “None taken. The feeling’s mutual.”

Weasley nodded curtly, seemingly satisfied with that answer.

Beside him, Hermione was still grinning. “Anyway, I really am happy for you. _Both_ of you. The two of you have been dancing around each other for ages now, it’s actually rather ridiculous. Harry was borderline obsessed with you for years, Draco. Sixth Year was the worst, he couldn’t stop talking about you. It was always Malfoy this, Malfoy that, and by winter he was practically stalking you—”

“Okay, I think he gets it!” exclaimed Harry, voice much higher and squeakier than normal, and Draco laughed as the Gryffindor’s face once again flushed to match the walls.

“Actually, Hermione,” he said with a smirk, “please do continue. I find myself unusually interested in this story. Obsessed with me, you say?”

Harry immediately started sputtering, and it was so delightfully adorable Draco couldn’t help himself; he pressed another kiss to Harry’s lips, effectively silencing the latter’s protests and simultaneously eliciting an outcry from Weasley.

“Bloody hell,” the ginger groaned across the room. “Look, I’m genuinely happy for you, Harry, but seeing my best mate snog a Malfoy is weird, okay? _Weird_.”

However, much to Draco’s approval, Harry completely ignored his friend. Instead, he kissed back, not caring that his two best friends were watching, and it generated such an intense rush of joy within Draco that he threw caution to the wind and deepened the kiss.

“Christ, this is too much,” Draco dimly noted Weasley grumble. “We’re literally right here. Do they realise we’re right here? I think they do.”

Hermione’s chuckle sounded. “Come on, Ronald, we should get going. I dare say they could use some privacy.”

Weasley snorted. “I’ll say.”

And Draco might not have known whether or not this was his last day assigned as Harry’s bodyguard. He might not have known what the future held in store for them, whether all this would last, whether, when this all ended, he’d be enough to protect the man he loved.

But at that moment all he let himself think about was the fact that Harry was here, Harry was his, they were dating, they were kissing—this was real.

And, honestly?

What more could he ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, Ron, you really should have seen this coming.


	19. of monsters and maniacs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fluff of the last chapter, because, full disclosure, shit’s about to get real. (sorry in advance :))  
> Also, yes, this chapter is loooooong, much more so than usual, but that’s due to the sheer amount of scenes I had to pack into it. Yes, I could have (and probably should have) split it in two, but I really didn’t want to, plus y’all deserve a humongous chapter for all your amazing and continuous support.  
> Now, enough chitchat. Enjoy chapter 19 (and please don’t hate me by the end of this)!

Draco had a bad feeling about this.

That’s the one and only thing he could say with absolute certainty as he stood there in front of the cherry wood door leading to Robards’ office, fist lifted and ready to knock—just as it had been for the last thirty seconds.

And yet, he hesitated.

It was probably stupid, he knew that. Nothing but pesky, irrational nerves, dialled up to the maximum after one particularly sleepless night. He hadn’t gotten more than two or three hours in, and although Draco had become well-accustomed to such circumstances since the war, something still felt off. Only he couldn’t quite put his finger on what, and that grated on his nerves to no end.

Draco set his jaw.

Calm.

He needed to stay calm.

After much protesting, Harry had agreed to stay at the flat—although ‘agreed’ was putting it kindly—safe and secure and watched over by Hermione and Weasley. That was one headache Draco could check off the list.

The next waited for him behind those large and imposing cherry wood doors.

Draco clenched and unclenched his fists. He really should just get it over with. Walk through those doors and listen to what Robards had to say, then work with that. After all, he could still protect Harry even if Robards took him off the case. Just because he wasn’t assigned to the Gryffindor anymore didn’t mean he actually had to remove himself from his soulmate’s life again.

Not that that was even an option now.

The most mature thing Draco could do now, he knew, was speak to Robards and go from there. Except he wasn’t so sure he _wanted_ to be mature. He didn’t want to hear what Robards had to say, didn’t want to be told he’d fucked up one too many times, didn’t want to have to return to the flat, look Harry in the eye and tell him he’d been reassigned.

And therein laid the problem. The reason Draco still hadn’t knocked, the reason he felt so damn nervous.

He pursed his lips and glared at the reddish-brown wood, at the golden name plate polished so meticulously he could see his own scowling face reflected back at him.

He shook his head. Salazar’s balls, he was a _Malfoy_ , for Circe’s sake! _Pull yourself together_.

And so, finally, he pursed his lips and knocked.

A second of silence ticked by, then another. And another, and another.

He knocked again.

Waited another few moments. Still nothing.

“Sir?” he asked and gave a third, sharper rap. “Sir, it’s Draco Malfoy. You wanted to speak with me?”

When, again, no answer came, spoken or otherwise, not even the rustling of paper or the squeaking of a chair—that’s when Draco began to get truly suspicious. Wes, Robards’ secretary, had assured Draco just minutes before that Robards was in his office, sorting through paperwork. He’d even buzzed up to let the Head Auror know Draco was there, to which Robards had responded simply ‘send him on up’.

Draco had heard the man himself, would recognise that gruff voice anywhere. To all intents and purposes, Robards should be in his office, and he should have heard Draco’s knocking.

So either the Head Auror had in the last five minutes managed to fall into a very deep slumber…or something bad had happened.

Salazar’s tits, was one stress-free day really too much to ask for?!

Draco dropped one hand to the doorknob, the other locked firmly around his wand.

“Sir?” he tried one last time, voice rising. “Head Auror Robards?”

But it remained completely quiet on the other side of the wood.

Too quiet.

Draco gritted his teeth and inhaled deep. And then he pushed down on the doorknob, wand raised in front of him, and entered the office.

The door swung open with an ominous creak, and Draco’s eyes immediately scoured every free surface, every nook and every cranny, from one side of the office to the other.

He frowned. Nothing.

Slowly, he took one step into the office, wand lifted and a ‘Stupefy’ already on the tip of his tongue. One step, then another, each more cautious than the last.

Likely the most remarkable feature of Head Auror Robards’ office was the fact that it was so utterly unremarkable. It was large, yet cramped; tidy, yet cluttered. The most profound feature of the entire space was the fact that there was not a single personal item in it—no trophies, no souvenirs of long past travels, not even a single picture frame that might indicate the man had a life outside his job.

Draco had yet to decide whether he respected the man for it or pitied him.

The Slytherin slowly traversed the room, never letting his guard down despite the office’s apparent emptiness. During his years as an Auror, he had witnessed one too many close calls to ever do that, and the hairs at the back of his neck still stood on end, that restless, writhing feeling in his gut telling him to stay alert, keep an eye out, _look_.

And it was good that he did, for when he slowly made his way around the desk and peeked behind, it was the sight of Robards’ limp, motionless body that awaited him there.

Draco didn’t even have time to draw in a gasp before the door on the other side of the room slammed shut with a definite and resounding bang, and a blast of green erupted from the shadows.

Draco threw himself to the side just in time, and the Killing Curse hit the wall behind him, ripping the mint-green wallpaper apart where it collided. He swore and rolled behind the desk just as another curse hit the spot where he’d stood mere seconds before.

“Come out, Draco,” cooed an eerily familiar voice, and Draco briefly closed his eyes, jaw set, cursing his constant and seemingly unending bad luck.

_Fuck_.

“Come out, my dear boy,” Yaxley crooned again, and Draco could hear his footsteps on the wooden floor. Draco inhaled deep. _Creak_. Another breath. _Creeeeeak_. “Come now, hiding’s no fun. Step out where I can see you, so that we might have a civilised conversation as two equally civilised adults.”

Civilised. Ha. If Draco weren’t currently on the verge of a panic attack, he would have laughed.

“Hmm,” came Yaxley’s voice, even closer this time. Draco squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck fuck _fuck_. “Not very talkative today, are we? Tell me, Draco, whatever’s the matter?”

Draco didn’t bother replying, his mind racing as fast as his heart. He needed a plan, and quick. Yaxley’s footsteps were drawing closer by the second, and it didn’t look like anyone would be coming to help him subdue the Death Eater, not if the man had managed to surprise even Robards.

Oh Salazar.

_Robards_.

Draco did what he should have done the very moment he saw the Head Auror’s crumpled body and scrambled over to the man’s side, reaching out to check for a pulse. For one terrifying moment, he couldn’t find one, couldn’t hear anything but Yaxley’s continuous droning and the too-quick beat of his own heart.

But then…there it was. Soft and faint and too slow, but there nonetheless, and, for the time being, that was all Draco could ask for. He would have breathed a relieved sigh if there weren’t a deranged killer waiting for him just behind the desk.

“Honestly, Draco,” Yaxley said. The man sounded like a sullen child, which was just _wrong_ on so many different levels. “You disappoint me. Here I thought you would jump at the chance to duel me. You know, defend your boyfriend’s honour and all that. How is Mr. Potter, by the way? Not dead yet, I presume?”

It was laughable really, how a single sentence—the mere usage of his soulmate’s name—was enough to freeze all Draco’s thoughts and effectively reduce his mind to an empty, useless mess.

Laughable, if not so damn terrifying.

No. Yaxley couldn’t know. He simply _couldn’t_. Harry hadn’t been outside once since the Horrid Hayes-Fiasco, and only Draco, Harry, Hermione and Weasley knew they were dating. Draco hadn’t even told his mother yet, nor Pansy, nor Blaise, though he had no doubt those two would find out sooner rather than later.

This, it had to be just another attempt to rile Draco up. Yes, he decided, that was it. Get him panicked and flustered so that Yaxley could catch him off guard.

The knowledge would be reassuring if, that is, it hadn’t already worked so tremendously well.

“He _is_ alive, right?” came Yaxley’s cold voice again, wrenching Draco back to reality. The man sounded amused, if such an emotion was even possible with such a shrivelled, pitch-black heart.

Yaxley chuckled, and the unnatural sound was accompanied by another bang of green light, making Draco wince despite himself. “No, of course he is. Silly me. I’d have heard, if not. You understand, I had to ask—after all, my accomplice is quite unpredictable.”

Draco gritted his teeth, but instead of letting Yaxley get to him again, he forced himself to concentrate. Compose himself.

Another deep breath. One problem at a time.

Draco’s gaze travelled around the room. From his vantage point behind the desk, he could only see half of the office, with the door located on the exact opposite side of the room. And with Yaxley currently situated in the middle, that was one exit eliminated.

Only problem was, it was also the _only_ exit.

“I grow tired of this,” Yaxley said, voice indeed sharper, and underscored his point with two further bangs of green. One of them struck a vase on a bookshelf to Draco’s right, causing it to shatter into a million tiny pieces, while the other hit the desk, raining paperwork down on the Slytherin. “Come out and play, Draco. Otherwise, you leave me no choice.”

Draco was cornered. That much was a fact. A fact he was positive Yaxley knew as well, otherwise he would’ve already ended this cat-and-mouse game long ago. No, the sick bastard was enjoying this, taking pleasure in Draco’s fear.

Draco’s gaze coasted across the room once more, desperately looking for something to latch onto, something that might get him out of this mess.

And then his eyes landed on the fireplace.

Immediately, his mind started racing. There may only be one exit, but if he could get to the fireplace, he might be able to escape the office after all.

Except there was no way he could Floo back to the flat, not yet, not with Yaxley so close by. If he was unlucky, Yaxley could jump into the fireplace with him, and then the situation would rapidly go from bad to worse to abysmal. Because if Draco led that maniac back to Harry, accidentally or not…

No.

He’d go somewhere else. But where? Malfoy Manor was out as well, for the same reason as Harry’s flat, as were all his friend’s apartments, and—

And all of a sudden, a crazy idea hit Draco, and he could feel a burst of hysterical laughter bubble up in his chest.

Oh.

Well.

That was certainly an idea.

“Last warning, Malfoy,” Yaxley snapped. Judging by the closeness of his voice, he was just on the other side of the desk.

Right then, thought Draco. Now or never.

Yaxley threw another curse at the desk, and Draco took that moment of temporary distraction to roll out from his hiding place and fire a non-verbal ‘Flipendo’ at the Death Eater. He didn’t waste time to see whether or not his spell had hit its target but judging by the enraged outcry and subsequent slam of a body hitting the adjacent wall, Draco figured it had.

He hurtled across the room, focus on the small pot of green powder sitting on the mantelpiece. But just as he reached out to grab a fistful of the stuff, a jet of purple light zipped by and hit with the wall just above his head.

The force of it sent Draco tumbling to the side. Before he could scramble up again, Yaxley was already there, looming above him with a truly murderous expression.

“Trying to escape?” Yaxley spat, face contorted with rage and disgust, wand pointed at Draco’s face. He tutted. “How cowardly. Just like your father in that regard, I suppose. And here I thought you wanted to be different. Little Auror Draco, just as weak now as you were four year ago.”

The words held so much venom it was almost a tangible thing, but, whereas the Draco of four years ago would have minded the comment about his father, twenty-year-old, Harry-Potter-dating Draco honestly couldn’t have cared less.

Because he _wasn’t_ the Draco of four years ago, contrary to what Yaxley claimed.

And that knowledge alone gave him the necessary surge of courage to pull himself together and _move_.

Draco kicked the man’s legs out from under him and immediately dove to the side. He leapt up and started back towards the fireplace, shooting a hasty ‘Stupefy’ over his shoulder.

Yaxley made a feral sort of sound behind him, guttural and purely animal, but Draco didn’t look back. All he dared look at was the ceramic bowl on the top of the mantelpiece, filled with chalky green Floo powder. Just a little further, a few more steps, a hairsbreadth away and—

Draco’s hand closed around a fistful of the powder, and he threw himself into the fireplace, throwing the powder into the hearth. Instantaneously, green flames sprung into existence, and Draco pictured his destination in his mind, could already smell the musty reek of it, feel the dust and cobwebs as though they clung to his very skin.

Through the flames, Draco could see Yaxley’s gaunt face, distorted with rage, those hollow black eyes glinting with such pure hatred it sent a shudder down Draco’s spine. His eyes narrowed and, with an especially ferocious growl, Yaxley threw himself forwards, towards the flames, hands reaching out for Draco.

But the man was too late, Draco thought with bitter triumph as the flames rose higher and higher and the office started to blur. And then Draco could feel the familiar tug in his stomach, and the office faded away, and—

And a hand wrapped itself around his ankle, just as the office disappeared entirely.

* * *

Harry looked at Ron, and Ron looked at Harry, and one could have heard a pin drop, that’s how utterly silent the flat was.

They sat across each other at the kitchen table, and Harry would honest-to-god rather duel a Death Eater than suffer another single second in the supreme awkwardness that was that moment.

Hermione had left a few minutes before. She’d been in a right frenzy, because apparently her boss—who was an ignorant, thick-witted cretin, her words, not Harry’s—had moved up some important meeting to that very afternoon, and now Hermione had only an hour or two to prepare her client and set up her defence, which had her reverting back to her Hogwarts-era self under the pressure.

Harry of course didn’t hold her abrupt departure against her; this was, after all, Hermione, and he knew from experience that keeping her from her work, whether school- or job-related, was a deadly endeavour.

Except with her gone, and Draco at the Ministry, that left Harry alone with Ron. And although Harry loved his best mate to death and couldn’t have been more grateful for how surprisingly unproblematic Ron had been since finding out Draco and he were dating…

Well.

It was still awkward as fuck.

Harry cleared his throat, deciding enough was enough. “Right then, about Draco—”

Except, at that exact moment, Ron opened his mouth as well. “So, mate, about Malfoy—”

“—oh, sorry, you first—”

“—sorry, my bad, you were saying—”

They both stopped midsentence, grimacing as that god-awful silence engulfed the table yet again, even more uncomfortable than before, if such a thing was at all possible.

Harry pulled a face, repressing a groan. Christ this was awkward. “Sorry. You go first.”

Ron, too, winced ever so slightly. But then he nodded, eyes resolutely trained on his clasped hands. “Right, okay. So…Harry. Mate. Look, you should know you’re my best friend. Completely and totally, without a doubt. Honestly, you’re practically family. A brother, if you will.”

The ginger cleared his throat, looking _anywhere_ but at Harry, and the latter dimly wondered how much of an arse it’d make him if he just got up and fled then and there, before things could deteriorate as they were bound to do.

“That’s why,” Ron began, then stopped midsentence to clear his throat again, and judging by the concentrated look plastered across his face—the sort that made the redhead look vaguely constipated—he was obviously trying to choose his words wisely.

Well, Harry thought defeatedly, at least that’s a first.

“That’s why, back when you and Ginny started dating, I was so…reluctant,” Ron continued. “The idea of you, my brother, dating Ginny, my sister, was weird, to put it mildly. You two were good for each other, I suppose, and Ginny really loved you, might even still—”

Harry actually did groan this time, only barely resisting the urge to slam his head against the table. Good god, of course it would come to this.

“Ron…,” he began wearily.

But Ron, much to Harry’s surprise, simply held up a silencing hand, his expression turning from uncomfortable to sombre in the blink of an eye.

“No. Please, Harry, just give me a moment, okay? I’m getting to it.”

Harry gritted his teeth but obliged, falling silent once again.

Ron gave a satisfied little nod. “Good. What I was trying to say is that I had my doubts about you and Ginny, and they turned out to be valid. You broke up, and you broke her heart. That’s a fact.”

Harry grimaced at the reminder. He knew he’d fucked up when it came to Ginny but, save for one especially heated lecture directly after the breakup, Ron had to the most part stayed out of it, much to Harry’s eternal gratitude. Ron wasn’t one to hold grudges for long, so Harry had thought himself pardoned for the entire issue.

Seems he’d thought wrong.

“Mate,” Harry said carefully, “you know I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Ron interrupted curtly. But he didn’t sound angry or vindictive, and instead his tone was uncharacteristically gentle. “Look, I’m not trying to guilt-trip you right now, I promise. I just need you to understand that I know you well enough by now to recognise whether or not someone is right for you. Ginny, as much as it pains me to admit, wasn’t.”

Harry’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in surprise.

But Ron was already continuing, “I know that, you know that, hell, even _she_ knows that. If it weren’t for the war, maybe you two could have hammered things out. But the war did happen, and it changed you, it changed her, it changed us _all_. That’s the truth, and regardless of whether Ginny wants to accept that or not, it can’t be changed.”

Ron paused and took a deep breath, and Harry could practically _see_ the willpower it took him to grit out his next few words. “So, no, she and you don’t fit. Maybe you never did. But Dra—” He stopped midsentence and shook his head, snorting. “Yeah, sorry, nope. Not going to happen. That little ferret will always be Malfoy in my book, even if he is dating my best mate. No offence, of course.”

Harry couldn’t help but grin back at his best friend, hope suddenly rising where there had been nothing but dread seconds before. “None taken.”

“Anyway,” Ron continued. “Malfoy may be an arrogant, smarmy little arsehole, but for some inexplicable reason, you and he _do_ fit. I dare say he understands you where Ginny doesn’t, and, moreover, he cares about you a lot—you’d have to be blind not to notice. The way I see it, that’s all that matters.”

He snorted. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever like him. He’s a git, plain and simple. But Hermione does—not that she’d never admit it—and so do you, and that’s enough for me. If he makes you happy, Harry, then what kind of a shite best friend would I be to deprive you of that happiness?”

Ron gave a curt little nod, and he still wouldn’t look Harry in the eye, still sat there across the table, perched awkwardly on the edge of his seat, wringing his hands, expression one of intense discomfort.

But even though silence once again descended upon the two friends, the awkwardness from before was gone, vanished in a puff of smoke as though it had never existed in the first place.

Now, Harry was not one to get easily emotional, at least not outwardly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, doubted he’d shed a single tear in the past two years.

Why remained a mystery to him. God knows he had more than enough reasons to cry, to lay curled up in his bed, curtains drawn, and sob until his eyes were sore. He used to think he’d used up all his tears in the year directly after the war, that he’d depleted his tear-stash to the point of ruin. There’d been too many lives lost, too many people irretrievably gone, too many names to mourn and faces to miss.

And, yes, okay, he knew that technically wasn’t how things worked, but, whatever the reason, the fact stood that Harry simply did not cry.

However, sitting there at the kitchen table, across from his best friend, his wonderful, amazing best friend…well.

It was a close call, to put it simply.

Harry opened his mouth, unsure what to say, but needing to say _something_ , to show Ron just how much those words meant to him. His throat felt oddly constricted, and his eyes burned.

But before he could utter a single word, a sudden bright, blinding light appeared in between them.

“Fucking hell!” Harry heard Ron exclaim on the other side of the light, and he immediately went for his wand, ready to dive under the table and pull his best friend with him.

Except then the light froze and solidified, started shrinking and shaping into a small, winged creature, hazy at the edges but indisputably recognisable as a Patronus.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, his heart still beating incessantly against his ribcage. But that relief was short-lived, for it was then that the Patronus—a magpie, even though it was hard to tell through the haziness of it—started talking.

“Ron,” George Weasley’s voice said. Except his tone was even terser than usual, laced with an anxiety, a worry that had Harry’s gut immediately clenching in apprehension. “Ron, get over here now. We’re at the shop and—that’s it, love, deep breaths—look, we’re at the shop and I think the baby’s coming. Okay, no, I’m _sure_ the baby’s coming. I’m going to—Fred, stop crying, mummy’s going to be alright, I promise—I’m taking Angie to St. Mungo’s now. Get over here and take care of Fred, will you, the boy’s terrified, and I can’t very well take him with us. I already sent Mum and Dad a Patronus, they’re headed to the hospital. Ginny’s on her way, too, but you’re closest, so get your arse over here _now_ , otherwise, I swear to god, we’ll ban you from the shop for life.”

And with that ominous threat, the message cut off, and the magpie faded away.

For a split second, the flat was quiet again, stunned into silence.

Then all hell broke loose.

“ _Fuck_ ,” exclaimed Ron and jumped up from his seat, and Harry immediately followed his example, ignoring the ensuing screech that was wood on wood.

He started towards the fireplace, but when he realised Ron wasn’t following, he turned around, confused. “Mate, what’re you doing? You heard George, the baby’s coming _now_. We need to head over to Diagon.”

Ron looked completely torn, eyes wide, hair a mess as he raked his hands through it, gaze jumping from Harry to the fireplace and back. “Blimey, Harry, I can’t just leave you here, what if Yaxley—”

Harry made an impatient sound. He loved Ron, he really did, but _sometimes_ …

“You’re not going to leave me here,” Harry clarified, “because I’m coming, too. You said it yourself, we’re family, and that includes you and Ginny and Mrs. Weasley and George and everyone else. I’m not going to just sit here and do nothing while Angelina’s out there giving birth and your three-year-old nephew’s alone in Diagon, scared out of his mind. So, _let’s go_.”

Ron hesitated a second more, freckles a sharp contrast to the pallid, ashen skin of his face. He bit his lip, looking as indecisive as Harry had ever seen him. Typically, Harry would have been touched by the gesture, the fact that Ron would even hesitate when faced with the choice between Harry and his actual family, his own flesh and blood.

But now was decidedly _not the time_ , and so Harry said impatiently, “Ron, come _on_.”

And that, eventually, finally, seemed to tear the ginger out of his momentary stupor; Ron’s face hardened with resolve, and he gave a curt nod.

“Fine. But if you get yourself killed, Harry, I’m going to be pissed.”

* * *

Draco tumbled out of the fireplace and onto the dusty, grubby floor of Renaults and Co.

A shrill scream sounded across the shop and then a woman started cursing, a woman whose voice Draco immediately recognised as Philomena Craigs’. But he ignored her, instead scrambling up as quickly as he could, wand trained on the fireplace, chest heaving.

A few seconds passed. Nothing. No green flames, no curses, no Yaxley. Were he any less of an overcautious pessimist, Draco might have breathed a sigh of relief and left it at that.

Except Draco _was_ an overcautious pessimist, and an Auror on top of that. He knew what he’d felt—that had been Yaxley’s hand around Draco’s ankle, he was sure of it. And so, he did not breathe a sigh of relief, nor did he drop his wand or let down his guard. Draco waited, eyes trained on the fireplace, ignoring the sound of Philomena Craigs’ shouting, of her shrill voice demanding he leave at once, how _dare_ he set foot in her store like that, she had a _client_ here.

And it was a good thing he did, for mere moments later the fireplace shot up yet another round of green flames, and out rolled one scowling Corban Yaxley.

The Death Eater did not waste a second to take in his surroundings before shooting a curse in Draco’s direction, and the latter dodged it by throwing himself behind an ancient-looking cabinet covered in all kinds of books and vials and jars. Said books and vials and jars shattered and disintegrated under the impact of Yaxley’s spell, and the sound of breaking glass mixed with Philomena’s shrieks across the room which rapidly turned from angry to fearful to hysterical.

“No more hide and seek for you, Draco,” Yaxley growled, and the cabinet was flung to the side as though thrown by some invisible giant.

Draco jumped out of the way just in time, Yaxley’s next curse missing him by mere hairsbreadths, so close it singed the side of his coat.

He rolled behind the next available object—a display case filled with what appeared to be numerous enlarged snake skulls—flattening himself against the floor just as a curse shattered through the glass, raining little crystalline shards and chunks of bone down upon him.

_Fuck_ , he needed more time. That was all his sluggish brain could come up with, all his cyclone of racing thoughts could agree on.

So, he decided to buy himself more of it.

“What do you want, Yaxley?” he gritted out. “To kill me? Because if that’s your big goal, then I feel like you need to re-evaluate your life choices. Bit obsessive, wouldn’t you agree?”

It was risky, Draco knew that. A gamble that could very well cost him his life. Except, well, he was going to die anyway if he didn’t do something soon, and Draco’s entire personality was nothing if not risky. It was one of the reasons he and Harry fit so well.

For a brief moment, there was silence. No more bursts of colour shot through the air, no more cabinets were blown to pieces. For a moment, the wrecked interior of Renaults and Co. was at peace.

The silence was as loaded and tense as the previous noise, and Draco didn’t dare breathe as he waited for a response, for a reaction.

Finally, Yaxley said, “You really have no idea, do you? You’re done for already.” The man sounded a mixture between amused and hate-filled, and Draco clenched his jaw tighter.

“Oh? Then, by all means,” he bit out, “enlighten me.”

Yaxley snorted, and for a moment, Draco feared that was it. His eyes roamed over his surroundings, desperatedly looking for something, anything.

“Oh please, I’m not actually going to tell you the plan,” Yaxley’s cold voice sounded from across the room. “What sort of fool do you think I am? By telling you, not only would that ruin the plan, I’d also be depraving myself of the great amusement that is watching you struggle.” A chuckle sounded, the kind that made Draco want to retch. “You and the Potter boy are doomed already, and you don’t even realise it. There’s no more getting out of this one, you’re already—”

Before the Death Eater could finish the sentence, Draco had leapt to his feet and thrown up a ‘Protego’. And when a ‘Flipendo’ shot from the tip his wand, slicing through the air before it collided with the distracted Death Eater and sent him flying backwards into a particularly ugly umbrella stand, Yaxley had never seen it coming.

But Draco was done playing defensive; he hadn’t been second in his training level for nothing.

A growl sounded from Yaxley’s mouth, and his next curse shattered against Draco’s shield. But before the other man could so much as blink, Draco was already moving again, his wand twirling and twisting as he shot non-verbal spell after spell after spell. Yaxley only barely dodged the first three before he managed to throw up a shield of his own, and the man’s answering scowl was one of pure loathing.

But Draco wasn’t done yet; mouth set into a grim but determined line, he advanced, tuning out all outside noise—Philomena’s screams, Yaxley’s spat insults, his own pounding heart. Draco pushed his all into the volley of spells that exploded all over Yaxley’s shield in bursts of colour, and still he pressed on, on, on.

The edges of Yaxley’s shield started to fray, to give out, and Draco seized the opportunity to send a Stunner careening underneath. It hit Yaxley’s left foot, and the man staggered backwards before collapsing, the immobility in his leg rapidly spreading up his body.

Draco didn’t let down his shield as he stepped forwards, and so Yaxley’s last few haphazardly aimed curses bounced off harmlessly.

“What are you going to do now?” Yaxley sneered up at him, face contorted gruesomely, crooked, yellowing teeth bared like a cornered animal. “Huh? What will you do, Draco? Crucio me? Kill me?” He barked a laugh, but there was no sanity in the sound. “No, you wouldn’t do that, would you? Not you, not ickle baby Draco. You’re too _weak_!”

He started cackling, and a shudder of pure disgust ran down Draco’s spine as he stood over the man whose pitch-black eyes held not a shred of saneness, not so much as a flicker of humanity.

“No,” Draco said calmly, as though his heart weren’t still stumbling over its own rhythm. “I’m going to arrest you now.”

And before Yaxley could even open is mouth again, Draco flicked his wand once, and thick ropes bound themselves around Yaxley’s wrists and legs. The Death Eater gave an enraged outcry and tried to wriggle free, but in return the ropes only tightened.

“You filthy blood-traitor,” Yaxley hissed. “You will pay for this, Malfoy, I swear on the Dark Lord’s immortal soul. Just you wait, you cowardly piece of scum, you sickening disgrace, you—”

He stopped midsentence, and suddenly, those dark, empty eyes of his went very, very wide.

Draco’s heart missed a beat and a surge of alarm trickled down his spine. Something was wrong, _very_ wrong, and he gripped his wand tighter, preparing for the worst. Except Yaxley remained on the floor, unmoving and bound. As a matter of fact, the man had gone entirely still, unnaturally so, and he shut his mouth, the flood of insults coming to a sudden and abrupt stop.

And as Yaxley’s gaze locked back onto Draco’s, eyes sparkling with a sick sort of glee, his thin mouth curled upwards into a grin.

The Death Eater chuckled. “I told you you were done for.”

And before Draco could even process those words, the unmistakable tip of a wand bored itself into the back of his skull, and a deep, calm voice purred just above his ear, “Drop the wand, Malfoy.”

Draco drew in a long breath, squeezing his eyes shut for just a split second as alarm melted into horror, and horror faded into a calm sort of acceptance. He should have paid more attention to Philomena after all, it seemed. After all, she had tried to warn him there was a customer.

Lovely. Just his fucking luck.

“Now,” the voice said softly, but the increased pressure of the wand digging into Draco’s skin betrayed their calm. “Drop the wand now—or else.”

Recognising his lack of other options, Draco did as told, his jaw all the while clenched so hard it was a wonder all his teeth didn’t shatter under the force.

“Good,” the voice continued. “Now lift your hands up where I can see them, and back away slowly.”

When Draco hesitated, the stranger hissed in indignation, and for a split-second the pressure of the wand disappeared—except, before Draco could so much as move a muscle, two jets of green light blasted into the ground just inches away from his feet, causing the dark, rotting floorboards to shatter and spray chunks of wood in all directions.

Somewhere across the store, Philomena whimpered, and Yaxley cackled from below, while Draco only gritted his teeth harder. The stranger, however, simply dug his wand back into Draco’s skin and hissed, “Lift your hands. And back away slowly. It was not a request.”

Draco pursed his lips but then, slowly, carefully, raised first his left, then his right hand, taking a measured, cautious step backwards. Then another, and another, until the stranger grunted their approval.

“Enough.”

Draco watched as the stranger—a hooded figure whose face Draco couldn’t see, whether due to the dreary dark of Renaults and Co. or an especially clever Disillusionment Charm he couldn’t say—stepped out from behind him, taking the sharp tip of their wand with them.

On the ground a few feet away, Yaxley was grinning from ear to ear now. “I told you not to underestimate him, did I not? I _warned_ you, boy.” The Death Eater gave a particularly deranged cackle. “You’re done for, don’t you realise, you and your precious Potter both, your father ensured that when he helped me k—”

Yaxley stopped speaking then.

He stopped speaking, and he started screaming.

Screaming and shrieking and howling like someone had set him on fire, writhing on the floor, face contorted not with rage or hatred, but with pure, utter agony. And all Draco could do was watch, stunned, unable to move as though he were the one bound and trapped.

Yaxley’s screams came to an abrupt stop, and the man was left panting and wheezing and whimpering on the dirty floor. His eyes were wide once more, only this time there was anger in them, anger and rage and…

And fear.

Yes, it was fear in those pitch-black, merciless eyes as Yaxley looked across the room, and Draco followed the Death Eater’s gaze, only to find the hooded stranger standing there, wand-arm lifted and trained directly at Yaxley.

“How dare you,” hissed the Death Eater. But his voice was ragged, wobbly, unstable. “How _dare_ you, after all I risked, all I did for you, you insolent little brat—”

And then a blast of green shot from the stranger’s wand, and Corban Yaxley spoke no more.

Draco couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only gape at the Death Eater’s unmoving body, dark eyes wide but blank, empty, now as void of life as they always had been of mercy.

It was only when the stranger turned to face Draco that the Slytherin was wrenched back into reality, that he forced himself to breathe again, look, _think_.

“Whatever it is you want,” Draco bit out, eyes unblinking as they focused on the stranger, voice cold and calm and composed, just as it ought to be, “killing me now won’t solve anything. It’ll only add to your problems, I assure you. Trust me when I say murdering an Auror is not something the Ministry takes lightly. Look, I can help you—”

The stranger uttered an entirely mirthless laugh, and it sent goosebumps hurtling up Draco’s arms.

“You? Help me?” The hooded man shook his head. “No, Malfoy, I’m quite sure you’ve done more than enough.”

Draco pursed his lips. But he didn’t stop speaking, refused to give up. Fuck, he still had a _life_ to live, the sort that had always seemed so unreachable before but had in the last few days become a real, genuine possibility.

“I don’t know your endgame, but I guarantee you there are other ways to go about it, better ways…”

“No.”

Draco blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

The stranger shook his head. “No. There are no other ways to go about it. There is only the one, and this here is it. But I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand.”

The man raised his wand again, this time pointed at Draco, and said, “Everte Statum.”

And before the stranger had even finished speaking, Draco was flung backwards, and the world went dark around him.

* * *

A chaotic twenty-something minutes after their arrival at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, Harry stepped outside and took a deep, deep breath, letting his eyes fall shut for an instant as he stood on the cobbled sidewalk outside the shop and enjoyed the calming, soothing feeling of the sun rays on his face.

Ron and he had arrived just moments before George and Angelina Disapparated to St. Mungo’s, and to say it had been a stressful few minutes would be an understatement of the most perverse proportions.

Harry had always figured he’d have kids one day, had never even considered any other option. It just seemed like something he would do, something he would enjoy, an opportunity to give a child of his own the loving upbringing he’d never had but had always yearned for.

But after watching Angelina lay on a makeshift bed of Silver Sparkling Snakes packages, huffing and wheezing while George sat by her side, one hand clasped tightly around hers as he repeated again and again ‘deep breaths, hun, you’re doing great’, his other hand gripping that of little Fred, who stood by just as helplessly as Harry, wailing and crying that his mummy was dying…

Harry liked to think of himself as brave—after all, he was a Gryffindor, an Auror and had managed to kill the greatest dark wizard of all time—but when placed in that sort of setting, he had no qualms admitting he’d been scared shitless.

At least Angelina and George were safely at St. Mungo’s now. Ginny had sent a Patronus to let Ron know she’d be over in no more than ten minutes, but the latter had already done an amazing job calming the little one down.

As a matter of fact, Harry thought, Ron would make a great dad himself one day, and Hermione a great mum. Harry, though…well, he wasn’t so sure.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want kids, nor that he didn’t think himself capable of raising an actual human being, temper tantrums and all. On the contrary, he knew he could do it, might even enjoy it.

The problem was, however, that Harry had absolutely no idea how good parenting was supposed to look. His own childhood had been shite. That much was a fact. The Dursleys hadn’t exactly been good role models, and although the teachers at Hogwarts—McGonagall and Dumbledore especially—had certainly shaped Harry’s childhood in the best way, they still hadn’t been parent figures either. Guardians, sure, but parents…not so much.

He had no one to base parenthood off of, no idea where he’d even start.

Except Draco had had a shite childhood as well—how could he not with Lucius Malfoy as a father—and yet Harry had no doubt _he’d_ make a fantastic father. A bit strict, true, and maybe he’d struggle at the beginning. But after a year or two, he would get the hang of it, and then he’d excel at parenthood just as he excelled at everything else.

It was a bit heart-warming, honestly, imagining it. As a matter of fact, Harry could picture it perfectly: Draco sitting on the floor, playing dolls with a little five-year-old girl, a bit tired but beaming down at her nonetheless with a smile of such unfiltered joy and pride it set his whole face aglow. She’d have his silver-blonde hair, but Lily Potter’s green eyes, and after many a long night spent arguing about her name, Draco would inevitably win out, and she’d be named after a star as bright and radiant as she was, and—

Harry’s eyes flew open with a start.

Good god, what was he _doing_? For Christ’s sake, he and Draco had only just gotten together, how was Harry already imagining them married and with _children_?!

He shook his head in an effort to rid himself of the myriad of unsettling thoughts that had somehow penetrated his mind. Honestly, what was wrong with him? Draco probably wouldn’t even want to get married. Not to mention the man had a soulmate, one he had at some point obviously had feelings for, even if he had lied when saying it was a ‘she’.

And suddenly Harry found his mind circling back to the same topic he’d pondered the day before yesterday, after their first kiss, when he was lying in bed and rejoicing in the knowledge that _Draco had honest-to-god kissed him_. And then Harry had kissed back because…well.

Because Harry cared quite a lot more about the blond git than he would have ever thought possible, and the idea of not being with him all day, of someone _else_ living with Draco and holding his hand and kissing him—it didn’t sit well with Harry, to put it mildly.

So, although Pansy’s speech about soulmates being an option but not destiny had been in many ways enlightening, the knowledge that Draco did have a soulmate out there somewhere who he had at some point loved deeply…Harry didn’t like it one bit. He knew he was being an irrational, jealous arsehole, but he just couldn’t help it, not when it came to Draco.

Because, as he had told the Slytherin the day before:

Draco may be an arrogant, pretentious toff, but he was _Harry’s_ arrogant, pretentious toff, and the Gryffindor intended to keep it that way for as long as Draco would have him.

Harry was still deep in thought when, across the alleyway, something caught his attention. It was a lone, hooded figure, slipping out of the shadows coming from the direction of Knockturn Alley.

Senses immediately on high alert, Harry drew his wand. If there was one thing he had learned as an Auror, it was to always be alert and prepared for the worst, even if said alertness sometimes bordered on paranoia. Many people had thought Alastor Moody mad, but Harry had never forgotten the phrase ‘constant vigilance’—and it had yet to fail him.

Something about the figure felt off, and so Harry slipped into the shadows as well and followed the figure down the unusually empty street, wand all the while drawn, footsteps so quiet they were near-silent. He kept his distance at first, but then the figure veered into a narrow alleyway, and Harry took a second to curse his bad luck, but then hastened to follow.

The alleyway was oddly dark for such a bright mid-August afternoon, and Harry could feel chills race up his arms despite the sweltering weather as he slowly crept further down the alley, gaze never leaving the figure, not for a second.

And so, when said figure suddenly came to an abrupt stop, paused for a second and then whirled around to face Harry, wand drawn and pointed directly at his face—well, at least Harry didn’t miss the moment his wand was wrenched out of his hand and flung across the alleyway.

He braced himself for another curse, but when a few seconds passed and none came, his gaze slowly lifted to that of his attacker.

Only to find two familiar wide, dark blue eyes staring back at him, set into an equally familiar face framed by equally familiar brown curls.

Harry would have dropped his wand in surprise if it weren’t, of course, currently on the other side of the alleyway.

“ _Nic_?!”

Nic’s lips twitched, but he didn’t drop his wand. “Harry.”

Relief flooded through the Gryffindor, and he immediately relaxed. “Christ, Nic, I thought you were some type of criminal. You gave me a proper fright.” Harry shook his head, huffing out a breath. “What are you doing out and about anyway? And in such a heavy cloak? Mate, you do realise it’s the middle of summer, right?”

He laughed, but stopped just as quickly when the other man didn’t join in.

As a matter of fact, Harry noted with a bang of alarm, Nic didn’t look at all happy to see him; gone were the laugh lines and smiles Harry had come to expect on the American’s face, gone and replaced by a harsh, hard sort of stoniness that had Harry’s smile slowly but surely fading.

The sight was such a stark contrast to the other day, when Harry had gone on a date with the man and the latter had looked so healthy and radiant under the soft lighting of the restaurant, that Harry momentarily forgot the fact that Nic still had his wand pointed at him.

And then it hit him.

The date.

Oh _Merlin_ , no wonder Nic wasn’t glad to see him. Harry felt like facepalming. Draco was right, he truly was a blind, insensitive moron.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry about the other day,” he said. “I owe you an apology, Nic. Because, well, you see…Draco and I…me and Draco…the two of us—”

Not for the first or the last time, Harry wished he had Hermione’s brilliant intellect or Ron’s great judgement or Draco’s quick-witted ingenuity, or even just the necessary intelligence to be able to string together a halfway-decent sentence without five minutes of stammering preparation beforehand.

Harry took a deep breath, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Might as well just get it over with.

“Draco and I are dating,” he admitted. “We weren’t when you and I had dinner on Monday, I swear. I would never…string you along or anything, I promise, but that’s why…well. That’s why we won’t be able to have that do over date after all. I’m sorry, but I’m serious about Draco and I could never do that to him, or you, for that matter. So. Yeah. That’s the truth. Sorry again.”

He didn’t dare look up into the other man’s face, too worried of what he might find there if he did. Nic was sure to be angry. Harry knew he would be. If Draco had pulled something like that, gone out to a fancy restaurant with him one day and dropped him like last week’s Quibbler the next…

Harry’s jaw set. Nope. Not even going to think about that.

The question now was, though, how angry would Nic’s ‘angry’ be, and was there any way Harry might help?

When a few more seconds passed and still no answer came, no sound or response of any kind, Harry chanced a glance up into the other man’s face.

But what he saw there immediately dwarfed all worries about past dates and hypotheticalities.

Harry’s eyes widened in alarm. “Bloody hell, Nic, are you okay? You look horrible.”

And he did. Usually, the colouring of Nic’s skin was similar to Harry’s, if perhaps a few shades lighter. But right now, in the dark of the alleyway, where not even the warm, golden rays of summer sun could reach them, Nic was practically as white as a sheet, with dark smudges discolouring the area right below his eyes, making him seem years older and wearier than he actually was, beads of sweat unmistakable as they trickled down his brow.

Harry wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed it before, but it was enough to make him worry. The man looked positively nauseous, for Christ’s sake.

“Seriously, what happened to you?” Harry asked and took a step forward. “Are you ill? Hurt? Did someone attack you? I can Side-Along you to St. Mungo’s right away if you think you’re up for it—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

They were the first words Nic spoke to him, and the other man’s voice sounded incredibly different all of a sudden, so much so Harry stopped speaking immediately, stunned into silence. Nic’s voice was as hard and cold as his eyes, and it was such a stark change from his usual warmth that Harry was left gaping.

“You weren’t supposed to be here, Harry,” Nic said, blue eyes clouding over with some foreign, unplaceable emotion that had the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck standing on edge.

Yes, the Gryffindor decided with a pang of dread, something was definitely off.

“Sorry what?”

But the other man ignored him, and as he continued, his tone became more and more heated. “None of you were. Do you have _any_ idea how hard it is to come up with the perfect plan?” The man chuckled, but the icy bitterness of it sent another round of goosebumps up Harry’s arms. “No, my bad, of course you wouldn’t. You’re _Harry Potter_ —you always had other people to formulate and then execute your plans for you, didn’t you.”

It was at that moment that Harry truly realised the gravity of the situation—he was alone, without a wand, and with someone who was making very little sense and saying things which sounded very much disturbing.

“Anyway,” Nic continued, either oblivious to Harry’s growing alarm or simply uncaring. “What I’m trying to say is, it sucks. It really does. Here I had this amazing set of ideas, all so thoroughly thought out and researched and planned—and then your Death Eater boyfriend comes along and absolutely trashes _everything_.”

And just like that Harry felt his heart sink, plummet down to his feet in a matter of seconds, taking all his previous thoughts and the air out of his lungs with it.

“I—” he stammered, mind a reeling mess, heart all the while stumbling over its own rhythm. “What the hell are you talking about? What did you—did something happen to Draco? Is he alright?”

Harry felt like his world had just been rotated by 180 degrees. No no no, this wasn’t right, none of it was. Draco was at the Ministry, talking to Robards. He wasn’t—he couldn’t have—

Nic watched him, eyes like two empty, frozen sheets of ice. It was then that two separate realisations hit Harry with about as much subtlety as the Hogwarts Express at full speed:

One, this person in front of him, the man whose wand was currently pointed at Harry’s face—this wasn’t Nic, at least not the Nic Harry knew, the one with the laugh lines and kind smiles and sympathetic words. That Nic was gone, vanished, had perhaps never existed in the first place.

No, the person in front of Harry was a stranger, and said stranger didn’t want to be his friend, to go on a date with him, to take him out to some fancy French restaurant in muggle London and talk about his family and friends and infuriating bodyguard/flatmate/crush.

This stranger wanted to hurt him, potentially kill him.

Enter realisation numero two: Harry was so truly and royally fucked.

“Relax,” said Nic, sounding mildly bored. Harry did the opposite, especially when Nic continued: “Loverboy’s fine, just a bit banged up. I couldn’t cause any lasting damage, not when everything’s already so fragile at the time being. The plan may need a few slight alterations here and there, but I’ll manage. If Mini Death Eater died, though…well, that’d ruin everything, simply put.”

Harry inhaled deep, willing his heart to stop pounding like crazy. He needed to think, to somehow formulate a plan that’d get him out of this alive. Right now, Nic had him cornered, and his wand remained on the other side of the alleyway. The only two options he had were either an unreliable attempt at wandless magic, or just full-out tackling the man and hoping for the best.

Either way, Harry’s options were shite.

Perhaps Nic realised just what it was Harry was pondering, for he then said, “Unfortunately though, _you_ have to die. It’s nothing personal, of course. I actually quite like you, to be honest. You’re refreshingly straightforward in most everything you do, and trust me when I say, that is not a trait you see very often in figureheads such as yourself. But I’m afraid it’s all part of the plan, so”—he shrugged—“tough luck, I guess.”

And before Harry could even completely process what Nic had just told him, he found himself being flung across the alleyway and promptly colliding with a dark, very hard stone wall.

Harry collapsed to the ground like a ragdoll, and it was as though Nic had stolen the very breath from his lungs as he laid on the cold hard cobblestone, wheezing and gasping for air, none of which quite seemed to make it to his lungs. There was a faint buzzing in his head, accompanied by a dull ache at the back of his skull.

Footsteps sounded, and Harry tried to roll over, to move, even if it was just an inch. His wand was on the other side of the alleyway, so there was no getting that in time, but if he could just catch Nic by surprise, tackle him and take his wand…

Except for that to work Harry would have to stand and, moreover, _actually tackle_ the man, and both those objectives seemed incredibly unmanageable with the pain numbing his brain and the Nic currently looming overhead.

Nic, of course, noticed immediately when Harry tried to move, and he stepped forward, pinning Harry’s right arm to the ground underneath the sole of his boot.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” the brunet said, tutting. “None of that. Behave yourself.” He leaned forwards, eyes raking over Harry’s arm. A frown overtook his pallid face, and while, at first, Harry was confused, it dawned on him just as Nic said, “Still just a D? I must admit, I’m disappointed, Harry. I thought you two would have worked things out by now.”

He pursed his lips, looking genuinely put out, but then loosened a long and particularly weary sigh. “Fine. I guess, in that case, I probably shouldn’t kill you just yet. Tell you what, I’ll give you two a little push, yeah? See how things progress from there.”

And before Harry could so much as open his mouth, before he could process Nic’s statement and figure out what the hell he meant with ‘you two’, the man had lifted his wand again and trained it at Harry, blue eyes merciless.

And then a yellow flash illuminated the alleyway, and pain ripped through Harry’s entire body.

It was like a Crucio, only ten, twenty, thirty times worse, and instead of rippling through his entire body, from his head to his feet, it remained focused solely on his stomach-area, burning his skin and clawing out his intestines and ripping him to pieces second by second.

There was blood, Harry could feel the warm, sticky wetness of it, and he was pretty sure he was screaming. But he couldn’t tell for sure, couldn’t hear anything save for the too-fast drumming of his own heart, and the rushing of blood in his ears, and a soft, familiar voice that said from somewhere above him:

“Such a shame. Truly.” A pause. “Obliviate.”

And then Harry’s world faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. That really just happened. To everyone who commented in earlier chapters that Nic was kinda sus—you were right! Yay! You can now officially say your judgement is better than Harry’s (not that that’s hard to manage lmao, Harry is, as we have already established, an idiot)  
> Again, I’m sorry this chapter turned out so long, there was just a lot a lot to fit into it, as you have now witnessed first-hand.  
> Feel free to scream at me in the comment section :)


	20. breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may or may not have noticed, this update's a week late. Sorry. I'm afraid my workload is picking up again, so unfortunately I can't truly promise you weekly updates for the next couple of chapters. But they will come!!! This story will not be abandoned, I swear it on Narcissa Malfoy's favourite china set ;)  
> Anywho, this chapter is much more ~angst~ and ~feels~ than any actual plot. As always, though, I hope you enjoy!

Draco watched silently as a handful of Aurors zipped up Yaxley’s lifeless corpse into a body bag, knees drawn up to his chest where he sat on one of the grimy, dust-covered windowsills across the room.

He knew he ought to feel something at the sight of Yaxley’s broken, limp body, be that triumph or hatred or anger or sadness, however unlikely that last one was. After all, all the man had ever brought Draco was death and misfortune. Had Yaxley’s plan succeeded, Draco would currently be without a soulmate.

Yet all Draco could do was watch the scene unfold in front of him and think to himself what a shame it was that Yaxley had, in his mad murder-frenzy, somehow managed to tear up the carpet. Shame, that; it had been the only moderately tasteful item in the entirety of this godsforsaken store.

Now, Draco was well-aware that sort of total indifference likely wasn’t healthy, but his head still throbbed where it had collided with the bookshelf on the other side of the room, so he didn’t waste much energy on it. The bookshelf in question now stood empty, all its contents scattered across the torn-up floor. Not that the mess was particularly noticeable—no, the entirety of Renaults and Co. was in too much disarray for that to be the case.

Draco huffed a silent laugh…and immediately regretted it when his bruised stomach gave a sharp stab of pain in protest. But he couldn’t help it—Merlin, Philomena would have a heart attack if she could see the state her precious shop was in now.

But she couldn’t, because she was currently in all likelihood locked in some holding cell under the Ministry, awaiting questioning. After all, the fact that she had been supplying a Death Eater’s accomplice—sorry, _ex_ -accomplice—with poisons and various other supplies was quite damning. She wouldn’t be able to plead ignorance this time around, not again, not when the evidence was so incriminatory.

Not that Draco expected her to; Philomena might have stayed relatively neutral during the war, but it didn’t take Hermione Granger to be able to see the old hag’s game-plan had changed drastically over the course of the last three years.

Draco didn’t even know why he was surprised. After all, Philomena had always been a raging blood supremacist, and a proud one at that. All that had changed was that the bloody crone had finally decided to put her money where her mouth was and do something about it.

“Hey, err, Malfoy, right?”

Draco’s head snapped back up, only to find a vaguely familiar face staring back down at him. It belonged to a shortish but notably burly-looking man with dark, buzzed hair and a severe sort of air to him.

“Yes,” the Slytherin said cautiously, unfurling his legs in a half-hearted effort to look at least partially the dignified Auror he was supposed to be. It sent another surge of pain rolling through him, originating from his stomach-area, but he ignored it and added instead, “Is something the matter?”

The other man was an Auror as well, judging by his red robes and overall presence in the destroyed mess that had once been Renaults and Co. The department had closed off half of Knockturn Alley, and there were currently at least two dozen Aurors out combing the surrounding area for Yaxley’s accomplice/murderer.

Not that Draco expected them to find anything. No, the man—whoever he’d been—was in all probability already halfway across Britain, if he had any common sense at all.

The other Auror grimaced. Draco couldn’t tell whether the frown was directed at him (wouldn’t be the first time), or simply a nonspecific, all-inclusive sort of thing.

“We met once before a few weeks back,” the man said. “Right here, as a matter of fact, investigating the Acturin deal. Name’s Jennings.” When Draco still didn’t react, the man added awkwardly, “I apprenticed under Joachim Heind?”

Recognition dawned on Draco.

Oh, right, _that_ bugger. Because his day hadn’t been going bad enough as it was.

“Right,” Draco replied tersely, too drained to muster any sort of cheeriness, fake or not.

Jennings frowned but wisely refrained from commenting. Draco hadn’t yet gathered the courage to look in a mirror since being flung against a bookshelf by Yaxley’s murderer, but he had no doubt he must look properly appalling right now.

But, hell, if it kept busybodies like Jennings away, then bring it on.

“Right,” Jennings echoed, and for such a burly man, he looked and sounded incredibly uneasy. “So, Malfoy, I just thought I should come over to say. Well.” The man cleared his throat, and Draco couldn’t help but get curious now. Merlin’s beard, what could possibly have the man so tongue-tied?

Jennings shifted awkwardly. “I just thought I should come over to say good job. You did us all a service today, going after Yaxley like that. Truth is, Malfoy, I may have misjudged you. When Robards gave you of all people the task to monitor Potter, I’ll admit I didn’t think you’d be the best fit for the job. Lots of us did. But after today, you proved you’re not, well…”

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “Still an evil Death Eater?”

The other man shrugged. “Yeah, that.”

Draco snorted, but he had to hand it to the man—at least his candour was spot-on. With all the shit he’d had to face over the past three years, the blond had learned to appreciate when someone was an arse to his face instead of behind his back.

Unfortunately, that particular reaction sent yet another bolt of pain through his stomach—one that was, it should be stressed, much more intense than the previous few, almost like an internal stab wound—and he hissed involuntarily, hands immediately going to his stomach despite there being nothing they could possibly do.

Needless to say, Jennings noticed. His frown deepened, and he said, “You okay, mate? You’re looking awfully pale.” The man paused. “Err, paler than usual, that is.”

Draco very much wanted to snap at the man to not call him mate, thank you very much, but another wave of pain got ahead of him, effectively cutting the Slytherin short as he gulped up another sharp intake of air through gritted teeth.

“You should go to St. Mungo’s,” Jennings said, looking genuinely concerned now, which only vexed Draco further. “Maybe that maniac hit you with a curse after all, and it’s only now taking effect.”

Merlin and Morgana, how someone so utterly incompetent had managed to secure a spot as an Auror was beyond Draco. The only explanation he could come up with was that the instructors had taken one look at the man’s burly statute and decided brains were overrated anyway. Only now taking effect? _Honestly_.

But instead of giving voice to his thoughts, Draco simply snapped, “No. I’m going home.”

Jennings’ eyebrows went up. “But aren’t you still assigned to Potter?”

Draco scowled, confused, and he was about to snap at the man to please at least try to keep up, the utter imbecile, invisible stomach wounds notwithstanding. However, before he could, Jennings’ words sunk in, as did his own.

Oh.

_Home_.

Draco cleared his throat and redonned his familiar cold sneer, all the while mentally chiding himself for his own bloody carelessness. Honestly, at the rate he was going, _he’d_ end up being the one to out them, and that was simply unacceptable.

“Yes, of course,” he answered evenly. “Slip of the tongue.”

And before the other man could interrogate him any further, Draco slipped off the windowsill and made to shoulder past the shorter Auror. Except that turned promptly impossible when he very nearly collapsed to the floor the moment his feet hit the ground, a wave of such intense and all-consuming agony ripping through him he doubled over, cursing.

“Blimey, you really do need to head over to St. Mungo’s,” Jennings’ voice said from somewhere above, his hand coming to rest awkwardly on Draco’s shoulder. The latter tried to shove it off, but only ended up wincing and swearing harder.

“No,” he bit out. “I have to get back to—”

“Look, mate, it’s protocol,” Jennings interrupted him. “If you get injured on the job, you have to have it checked out. That’s the rule. Nothing anybody can do about it, not you or me or even Robards. If I were you, instead of protesting, I’d just get it over with.”

Draco gritted his teeth harder, but with the immense surge of pain currently churning and writhing in his stomach, all he could think was that, for the first time all day, the bastard had a point.

Besides, Harry had Hermione and Weasley watching over him, so Draco really shouldn’t be worrying so. He was being irrational, as always when it came to his soulmate. To be honest, getting this whole blasted mystery-wound-fiasco wrapped up before Harry got wind of it was probably the best option for all parties involved anyway.

“Fine,” Draco gritted out, wrenching himself free of the other Auror’s grip. “But I’m Apparating there myself.”

~~~

Draco had just been sent to wait in a hospital room when the door across the room flew wide-open and one frazzled-looking Blaise Zabini came bursting through.

The Healer-in-training took one look at Draco, who sat on the hospital bed, both arms crossed tightly over his stomach, expression likely one of extreme discomfort—and promptly froze dead in his tracks, dark eyes wide.

“ _Shit_ ,” he breathed.

Draco snorted. “Good to see you too, Blaise.”

But Blaise didn’t so much as acknowledge his sarcastic greeting. He simply stood there in the half-open doorway, eyes wide and rimmed with dark, dark circles, fixing Draco with a mixture between horror and pity.

This little detail was enough to vanish any lingering amusement the blond might have felt up to this point in time, and instead replace it with dread, the sort that sent a bolt of alarm up his spine and had his eyes narrowing into slits.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

Blaise’s lips thinned, but he didn’t answer.

“ _Blaise_.” Draco’s hands fisted around the mattress he was currently perched on top of, and for the first time in the last half hour, the ripping pain in his stomach became secondary. It had settled into a dull sort of ache, but while he wasn’t doubling over in pain anymore, the sensation certainly wasn’t comfortable either.

Blaise opened his mouth, then promptly shut it. Opened it. And shut it again. Eventually, he set his jaw, and within seconds it was back—that mask of calm composure, of cool indifference, the façade every pureblood knew from infancy to put up if ever a challenge caught them off guard.

To put up, but also to spot.

“Draco,” the other Slytherin said. His tone was maddeningly calm and gentle, just as it always was, which in turn annoyed Draco to no end. Annoyed, and unsettled, but he chose to overlook the latter. “Where’s your injury?”

Draco pulled a face, but secretly, he found a small, nameless weight slipping from his shoulders. “ _That’s_ what you’re so concerned about? Merlin and Morgana, all this foreboding, and it turns out all you care about is doing your job. For a second there I thought you genuinely cared.”

He was kidding, of course. And usually, Blaise would already be smirking and laughing along with him, shooting back some silver-tongued remark like a proper Slytherin.

But, right now, the Healer-in-training didn’t seem to find Draco’s comment at all amusing. As a matter of fact, his expression grew, if possible, even more grave.

“Answer the question, Draco,” he said calmly. “Where is your injury?”

It really didn’t sound like a question, and just like that, the apprehension was back.

Draco scowled, not because he was actually angry, but because this whole situation was making him much more nervous than any situation had the right to make him.

“My stomach,” he bit out. “Hence why I’m currently hunched over on this bed like Pansy during her period.”

Not even that caused a crack in Blaise’s sombre expression, and that was the exact moment Draco knew the situation—whatever it may be—was _bad_ , even before Blaise spoke again.

“Draco,” he said again, and his soothing tone made Draco want to rip out first his hair, then that of his so-called friend. “I’m going to tell you something, but before I do, you need to promise me you’ll stay calm. Trust that everything that can be done is being done, and then some. None of it is your fault, not even marginally. Okay?”

Draco could feel his heartrate pick up, and he swallowed another wave of apprehension before forcing out, “Right, now you’re scaring me. You’re acting like someone died.”

He meant it as a joke. An ill-timed, hospital-themed, horridly horrible joke that not even Draco’s inborn dry humour could excuse—but a joke nonetheless.

He regretted it instantly when Blaise’s eyes clouded with pity.

“What happened.”

Blaise wasn’t fazed. “You have to promise first.”

Draco snorted incredulously, but with his thundering heart and blood roaring in his ears, he hardly heard himself. “What the hell, Blaise? Spit it out, will you? I’ve gone through enough shit for one day. What. _Happened_.”

“Promise, Draco.”

“Fine!” Draco threw his hands up in the air, ignoring the pain the action sent through him. “ _Fine_! I fucking promise. Happy now, you sadistic tosser?”

Blaise ignored the comment which was, again, very un-Blaise-like and, again, very unsettling. He said simply, “Good. Now, remember what you just promised.”

To stay calm. (He was finding that rather hard at the moment.)

To remember that something—what something?—was being done to combat whatever—which whatever?—was causing his typically so unrufflable friend such worry.

And, last but not least, to keep in mind that it was not his fault. Not even marginally.

That’s when it hit him.

“Oh no,” he breathed in nothing more than a whisper. Both in an effort to keep his voice from trembling, and because the words—and the horrible theory that accompanied them—scared Draco more than any deranged Death Eater or his ruthlessly murderous accomplice ever could.

Blaise simply watched on wordlessly, giving Draco all the confirmation he could possibly need.

An invisible injury without apparent cause.

A dull ache, sort of like an echo.

Pity.

The whole world seemed to come to a stop, and a wave of such pure and unadulterated horror washed over Draco that the pain momentarily became obsolete.

“Oh Salazar,” he breathed, and suddenly the room seemed to be spinning all around him, spinning and spinning and never slowing down. He raked a hand through his hair. “Oh Salazar, Salazar, Salazar. The soulmate bond. The _fucking soulmate bond_.”

It wasn’t supposed to have progressed this far already. Merlin’s beard, Harry didn’t even have his full soulmark yet. He didn’t know Draco’s wrist bore his name, didn’t know why it was they were always so in tune with each other’s emotions. It shouldn’t be possible, didn’t make any sense—

“Harry.” Draco inhaled a shaky breath, then looked up to his friend. “Where is he?”

It was what he should have been asking from the beginning. What his mind should have jumped to the instant the phantom pain started seeping through him like molten flames, burning him up from the inside, and all that almost an hour after his skirmish with the Death Eaters had ended.

Blaise’s mouth thinned further. “Fourth floor.”

An ice-cold shiver ran down the length of Draco’s spine.

Fourth floor.

Treatment for spell damage.

Fucking _hell._

“Before you ask, no one knows exactly what happened,” came Blaise’s wrongly calm voice, sounding unnaturally disembodied. “He was with at the Weasleys’ shop in Diagon. Weasley—Ronald, that is—had to babysit his nephew seeing as his brother’s wife is currently somewhere in this very hospital giving birth. Apparently, Harry insisted he come along. As per Weasley’s account, he went out to get some fresh air a few minutes after George and Angelina Disapparated.”

“And?” Draco could hardly breathe anymore; his lungs stopped working, his airways constricted, his chest felt like it was being squeezed to death by his own ribcage.

Blaise sent him an apologetic look. “And he and Ginevra found him in some dark, deserted alleyway near Knockturn Alley, lying in a puddle of his own blood.”

Draco was going to be sick. He was going to be sick, and he was going to throw up all over the perfectly clean, ivory-white bed sheets, and he was going to do so until the horror and fear and pain became secondary and his head grew so dizzy his mind stopped reeling.

“—working on him as we speak.” It was Blaise again, but his voice sounded oddly far away, as though he weren’t standing across the room but on the other side of a large, yawning chasm, separating Draco from the rest of the world. “He’ll pull through; he’s _Harry sodding Potter_. Nothing could possibly kill him, remember? You said so yourself.”

He had, hadn’t he. Only problem was, Draco was a liar. It was a fact just as inborn as his dry humour or condescending superiority or sadistic sarcasm. He’d never minded much before—after all, the best Slytherins were those that lied well and without remorse, those who would never let something as pesky as _empathy_ hold them back from manipulating people to do their bidding.

But now—now, Draco wished he wasn’t. Now he wished he were the worst liar, that he always told the truth, just so he might cling to that hope, just so he wouldn’t have to face the terrifying possibility that Harry might… _not_.

The realisation hit him like a Bludger to the face, and he stood up so fast he almost collapsed to the floor again, causing Blaise to rush forwards immediately. But Draco swatted off his friend’s hands.

“I need to see him. I need to see Harry _now_.”

It was barely audible, more a few panicked gulps of air than actual words, but Blaise, bless him, understood without problem.

“They’re likely still working on him,” he warned, but Draco didn’t care.

He said as much: “I don’t _care_. I—he—I have to—”

Salazar’s balls, since when was breathing so bloody _hard_.

Something—be that Draco’s no doubt panicked expression, or his sudden and uncharacteristic inability to string together a simple sentence, or maybe just his hyperventilating—caused Blaise’s face to harden with determination, and he said, “Fine. I’ll take you to him. But remember what you promised.”

Right. What Draco had promised. To stay calm. To remember they were helping Harry, they were helping his soulmate, they were doing their best to make sure he stayed alive, that he didn’t die in some sterilely empty hospital room in St. Mungo’s, die from wounds that had probably been inflicted by Yaxley’s accomplice during his escape, the accomplice Draco ought to have caught—

“Deep breaths.” Blaise’s voice again. “That’s it. In, and out. In. Out. Good. Keep it going.”

In. Out. In. Out.

With Blaise leading him, they made their way across the room, and then they were out in a hallway, walking past white, white walls that seemed to stretch on for miles, caging Draco in, past faceless people in equally white robes who rushed along without so much as a glance towards the two Slytherins.

In.

Left into a different hallway.

Out.

Right into the next.

In.

Up a staircase.

Out.

Through a pair of large double doors.

And then Draco found himself standing in a completely empty hallway. Empty, that is, save for him, Blaise, and two ginger-haired Weasleys who looked up in unison the moment the doors opened, faces drawn and jarringly pale.

For a moment, no one spoke. No one moved, no one so much as breathed, and suddenly all Draco could think was that Harry would still be in the flat if Weasley hadn’t dragged him along into Diagon, if he’d paid closer attention and watched Draco’s boyfriend as he was meant to. Harry would have never encountered Yaxley’s accomplice, and he’d never gotten hurt, and Draco wouldn’t have to worry right now whether he’d even still have a boyfriend by the end of the day.

All rationality and sensibility seeped from his mind with a snap.

What was left was nothing but rage.

Just like that, Draco had thrown off Blaise’s grip and started marching down the hallway to where the two Weasleys stood side-by-side, gaping at him with unconcealed shock, either due to his doubtlessly dishevelled appearance or the manic glint Draco knew he would find if he looked into a mirror now.

And then his right hand curled itself into a tight fist and collided with the side of Ron Weasley’s jaw with one resounding thwack.

“Fucking hell!” cursed Ginevra Weasley as her brother staggered back a few steps, hands flying to the side of his face. “You bloody _psychopath_ , what do you think you’re—”

“You were supposed to _protect_ him!” Draco hissed, interrupting her, focus pinned solely on her brother. But still his voice trembled—whether with rage or something else, not even he could say for sure. He shrugged off Blaise’s hands, starting forwards again. “You _promised_ you’d keep an eye on him. Make sure he stayed safely at the flat, safe and sound and _alive_. Was that really so fucking impossible a task? You couldn’t send one of your five dozen other siblings to babysit? You had to drag Harry into it?”

“Shut your mouth, Malfoy,” the She-Weasel growled, and judging by the closeness of the words she was standing right beside him, wand no doubt drawn.

But Draco didn’t care. He didn’t care if she hexed him, didn’t care about anything, and so he didn’t so much as glance her way. Rage churned within him, almost overpowering the panic and fear warring in his chest—almost, but not quite.

“You do release what’s at stake here, right? Let me remind you: this is Harry’s life you’re trifling with. His _life_ , Weasley.” Draco spat the word at him with all the venom in the world. And yet he felt not even the slightest flicker of triumph when the youngest Weasley son flinched as though physically struck. No triumph, no smug victory, nothing at all.

“That was supposed to _mean_ something to you. You, his self-proclaimed ‘best mate’. Do you truly care that little?” He sneered. “Or was it just stupidity that led you to bring Harry along to Diagon Alley where, might I remind you, the first attempt on his life was made mere weeks ago?” He snorted derisively. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’m even surprised.”

Ginevra made a sound in between a gasp and a growl. “I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, if you don’t shut up right this instant—”

Even Blaise said gently, warningly, “Draco…”

“Not to mention,” Draco continued, ignoring them both, “where the fuck is Granger? Because she certainly wasn’t where she was supposed to be, was she? Otherwise this could have very well been avoided. It was _explicitly agreed upon_ that the two of you stay with him at all times, that he not leave the flat, not under _any_ circumstances. You _swore_ , Weasley, you and Granger both—”

“I know!”

Draco stopped midsentence, the words dying on his tongue. Because when Weasley’s dark blue eyes lifted again, there was no anger shining back at Draco, none of the fiery irascibility he’d come to expect.

There was only a wretched sort of misery. Misery, and sadness, and guilt, and Draco found himself stunned into silence.

Because Ron Weasley looked like Draco felt, and wasn’t that just sobering.

Weasley shook his head. “I know, okay?” he said wearily. “I _know_. I fucked up. It _is_ my fault. I told him to go outside, get a bit of fresh air, relax a bit. Fred was crying so hard, you’d have thought we’d murdered his mum. And I’ve babysat him enough times to be used to it, but Harry’s never really been around kids a lot—how would he, growing up the way he did. And I swear, I had no idea he’d gone anywhere. I thought I was helping, I never expected him to—that he’d—and now—” His voice broke.

He cleared his throat. “Look, I fucked up, and because of that, my best friend might die. That’s on me.” His eyes locked on to Draco’s, and when he spoke again, they shone just as fiercely as his sister’s. “But Hermione had nothing to do with it. You hear me? _Nothing_. She had no idea what would happen, and when she finds out, she’s going to be devastated. She’ll probably even blame herself. So don’t you dare accuse her, not right now, not ever. She doesn’t deserve that.”

Draco’s anger was gone just as suddenly as it had appeared, and all he could manage was a strangled, “You _promised_ —”

“What the _hell_ is your problem?” seethed Ginevra. “Ron’s devastated, can you not see that? You have no right to come in here and accuse him of not caring about Harry, of—of—of indirectly _murdering_ him.”

The word elicited an involuntary flinch from Draco, but the youngest Weasley either didn’t notice or didn’t care, for she soldiered on without hesitation.

“Who do you think stood by Harry’s side throughout Hogwarts? Throughout the war? Because I know what you were doing during the war, _Malfoy_ , and it certainly wasn’t helping protect Harry.”

“Draco didn’t—” Blaise began immediately, ever the loyal friend, and even Weasley started, “Ginny…”

But the redhead just scowled deeper. “No, Ron! He needs to hear this. If anyone in this hallway doesn’t care about Harry enough, it’s him, isn’t it? I mean, a month ago he and Harry weren’t even on speaking terms, and now suddenly I’m supposed to believe he gives a flying fuck whether or not Harry dies?”

“ _Ginny_!”

She refocused her fiery glare on Draco. “I said it before and I’ll say it again: I don’t know what it is you’re playing at, but I don’t trust you, and neither should Harry. If he dies, it won’t be Ron’s or Hermione’s fault, it’ll be because his so-called ‘protector’ failed to protect him.”

The words stung. Merlin’s beard, they stung. Not because they were another hateful, discriminatory lie deliberately phrased to hurt him, not because it was another ‘evil Death Eater’ prejudice, the sort that had hounded him since the moment Voldemort fell, regardless of whether or not he’d changed sides.

No, they hurt because they were true, and Draco knew it.

First and foremost, it wasn’t Weasley or Hermione that had been supposed to protect Harry—it had been _Draco_. And not even because it was literally his job, his assignment, something that he was at the end of the day being paid to do, but because he was Harry’s soulmate and Harry his, because protecting him and making sure he stayed safe was without the shadow of a doubt the most important task of his life.

He could have asked Robards to send him an owl or, if the situation truly necessitated face-to-face communication, Floo him. But instead Draco had gone to the Ministry and left Harry alone.

He glanced once at Blaise, his earlier promise coming back to mind, only to find the latter already looking at him concernedly, as though he could read Draco’s thoughts right off his face. Honestly, he probably could.

So much for ‘don’t blame yourself’. Well, it’d been rather the futile hope from the start.

“Ginny, that’s _enough_ ,” said Weasley, tone harsh.

His sister sputtered indignantly, but under her brother’s unrelenting stare, finally clamped her mouth shut, opting instead to silently glare at Draco as if the world depended on her efforts, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Then, surprisingly, Weasley turned to Draco and said, voice oddly gentle, “It isn’t your fault. And when Harry wakes up, he’ll be glad you’re here.”

Draco couldn’t be sure what exactly was so comforting—the fact that Ron Weasley, Harry’s best friend and once upon a time one of the biggest Draco-haters on the planet, honestly thought Draco wasn’t to blame here, or the fact that he had used the word ‘when’.

But he clung to both, rationality be damned.

Whatever it was, though, it didn’t last very long, for at that particular moment a bolt of such intense pain thundered through his stomach that he had to double over, teeth gritted so hard it hurt, in an attempt to stifle a pained little whimper, the likes of which Draco refused to let two Weasleys and his concerned best friend/Trainee Healer hear from his lips.

Said concerned best friend/Trainee Healer was immediately at his side, and Weasley was already saying, “Bloody hell, are you okay?”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Fucking in. Fucking out.

“Fine,” he hissed, forcing himself to straighten himself up again, shoulders back, chin high.

The She-Weasel’s brown eyes narrowed, eyes nothing but slits as she took Draco in from head to toe. He could practically see the gears turning in her head, and if his mind weren’t so very preoccupied with other, far more pressing matters, Draco might have found himself concerned.

She opened her mouth to speak, to say something that would no doubt just make Draco’s day even worse, and the latter wondered miserably when his life had become such utter shit (trick question, it’d always been utter shit).

However, before any new surges of worry or dread could fester, a door on the other side of the hallway opened up, only to reveal a tall, willowy woman in white robes, donning a tight bun and even tighter expression.

She surveyed their little group of four once, dark eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“Friends and family of Harry Potter?”

“Yes,” breathed Draco immediately, voice nothing but a whisper. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Weasley nod frantically, blue eyes hauntingly wide, while both Blaise and Ginevra remained quiet and still as a statue.

The woman’s lips thinned, and another few moments of silence passed as she took each of them in, only pausing for a split second as they found Draco.

It was as though everyone was holding their breath—Draco certainly knew he was—in apprehension of what she might say next. Her expression was utterly unreadable, and Draco’s heart almost gave out at least twice waiting for her to say the words that’d either make his day or forever cast an impregnable shadow over his life.

Then, she nodded curtly, eyes still trained on Draco. “Right then. Come on in. He’s already asked to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ginny's not stupid, tho...


	21. so simple, so hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I somehow managed to write nearly 7000 words in the past two days.  
> And, lemme tell y'all.  
> This one's a doozy.  
> I don't even have anything else to say, just...  
> Enjoy!

Everything hurt.

His arms, his legs, his head, his chest—everything. It ached, and Harry was absolutely certain his whole body must be covered in a plethora of bruises right about now, red, blue, green, purple, yellow, all the colours of the rainbow.

And then there was his stomach.

“Careful, Mr. Potter,” said a soft but adamant voice somewhere above him, and he cracked his eyes open to find a stranger looming over him. She reminded him of Professor McGonagall with her severe scowl and don’t-you-dare-disobey-me gaze.

He tried to sit up, but immediately collapsed right back into the soft bedsheets again, having to squeeze his eyes and jaw shut just to keep from bursting into a pitiful display of tears then and there.

Fucking _hell,_ it _hurt_. It felt like someone with very sharp claws had shredded his abdomen, ripped out all his intestines, trampled over him, danced an Irish jig or two, and then went on their merry way. Harry might have wondered if this was what death felt like, were it not for the fact that he knew perfectly well what death looked and felt like, thank you very much, and this sure as hell _wasn’t it_.

Death didn’t fucking _hurt_ this much.

“Oh dear,” came a different voice, and a new face appeared above him. It was a pudgy man with silver-grey hair, and although it took a moment, Harry’s mind supplied a name before the rest of his senses had the chance to catch up.

“Oh dearie me,” repeated Healer Hodkinson, frowning down at Harry like he was a mildly disappointing chocolate frog card, the type you already had twenty of when all you really wanted was a Ptolemy one. “You really shouldn’t do that, Mr. Potter, you’ve only just woken up.”

“I did warn him,” came the woman’s voice again, sounding a mixture of weary and vexed.

Harry blinked a few times, both so that his brain might catch up to his surroundings and in an effort not to look directly into the blinding white lights shining down from above.

“Don’t mind Priyawadi, Mr. Potter,” said Healer Hodkinson merrily. “She’s just tired. The procedure was a bit more complicated than we might have liked. But, fortunately, everything turned out fine, didn’t it? Why, you’re good as new now.”

Harry tried to sit up again, only to collapse yet again with a groan that was part frustration and part pain.

“Oh, err, well,” said Healer Hodkinson, “maybe not _good_ as new yet.”

The stern-looking woman appeared in Harry’s line of view again, scowling at her colleague. “As you well know, _Robert_ , it’s Healer Preedan during work hours. And as for you, Mr. Potter”—those dark, razor-sharp eyes focused on Harry, and he instinctively winced. Yes, McGonagall indeed—“you are far from healed. I’d advise you to abstain from any further attempted feats of strength. Otherwise, so mark my words, you’ll be staying in this hospital for the next two weeks.”

Harry was about to open his mouth to protest when Healer Preedan’s words sunk in.

_Hospital_.

Oh shit.

“What happened?” he asked immediately, heart already picking up on speed. “I—why am I here? I can’t—did something—” And then, just like that, all his thoughts stopped dead in their tracks, leaving room for only one horrific realisation.

“Draco,” he breathed, and his eyes went wide in horror as he raked a hand through his hair, completely ignoring the dull echo of pain it caused him. “Oh bloody hell, _Draco_. He’s going to murder me, _fuck_ —”

“Draco?” repeated Healer Hodkinson, voice an octave higher. “As in Draco Malfoy? Former Death Eater Draco Malfoy?”

“Mr. Potter,” interrupted Healer Preedan before Harry could open his mouth to vehemently and vociferously defend his boyfriend. “Are you saying Mr. Malfoy did this? Because if so, we need to alert Deputy Head Auror Gilligan immediately, she should be on her way anyway—”

“Wait,” said Harry, “ _what_?”

“She’s been alerted to your assault, naturally,” continued Healer Preedan severely, “but I’m afraid the Auror Department is under quite a lot of stress at the time being, what with Head Auror Robards currently lying in a hospital room just down the hallway and Yaxley’s murder—”

“Yaxley’s _what_?”

“Goodness gracious, Priyawadi,” yelped Healer Hodkinson, earning himself the type of glare that would have any man with half a brain cowering in fear. “The boy’s barely awake, you can’t simply bombard him with such information!”

Healer Preedan opened her mouth again to no doubt snap back at her colleague, glower already lethal. But Harry’s brain was spinning with information—and just as much without it—and so he gritted his teeth and gritted out, “ _Stop_!”

Immediately, both Healers’ gazes snapped back to him. But he didn’t care; Harry had a whole list of things to worry about right now and, needless to say, being polite was not at the top of it.

“Okay,” he said slowly, both to keep his steadily growing frustration in check and to placate his similarly steadily growing headache. “First of all, not that it concerns anyone here, but Draco had nothing to do with this.”

Instantly, both Healers started speaking again, but Harry held up a silencing hand. He still didn’t care whether or not he was being rude; they’d just insinuated Draco had done this to him—whatever the fuck _this_ was—so they didn’t deserve his politeness.

“Secondly,” he continued, “what do you mean, ‘Yaxley’s murder’? He’s dead?”

Healer Hodkinson traded an uneasy look with his colleague. “I really don’t think you’re up for such news, Mr. Potter. You only just woke up from quite a taxing procedure, you ought to rest—”

Harry stared at the two Healers incredulously. First they insinuated Draco had something to do with this, and now they point-blank refused to tell him what was going on. Terrific. This was why Harry loved St. Mungo’s. Each stay was a proper joy.

“Draco,” he said again, trying to sit up for a third time only to subsequently collapse again in a bundle of aching limbs and clenched jaws. “Is he here? I need to see him.”

The Healers exchanged another look, but Harry wasn’t even paying them any attention, not anymore. He needed to see Draco. Draco would be able to tell him what the fuck was going on, why Harry was in a hospital bed at St. Mungo’s, feeling like he’d been run over by the Hogwarts Express, why these people were saying Head Auror Robards was here as well, why they were saying _Yaxley was dead_.

“Mr. Potter, I don’t think—” began Healer Preedan cautiously in a tone one might use to talk to a small child on the verge of a temper tantrum.

“Now,” Harry gritted out. “Please.”

Healer Preedan’s face darkened slightly, but she gave a curt nod, and then her face disappeared from Harry’s line of sight. The clicking of heels on the white floorboards below resounded off the walls, and then Harry could hear a door being opened and closed again, effectively stopping him from listening in.

Healer Hodkinson still hovered awkwardly above Harry, wringing his hands as he watched the Gryffindor, looking like he couldn’t decide whether or not to speak. Harry found he was enjoying the latter just fine.

His heart drummed against his aching ribcage as he tried to pull himself together and think. Something had happened—that much was obvious. But what? Why did every inch of Harry’s body feel bruised, what did Yaxley have to do with it, and—most importantly—why couldn’t he remember?

Because that was basically it, the crux of the whole matter— _Harry couldn’t remember_.

However, before he could descend into hysteria, the door on the other side of the room swung open yet again, and before Harry could so much as blink, a flash of ginger had bolted across the room and thrown its arms around him.

“Oh, thank _Merlin_ ,” exclaimed Ron, voice muffled. “You’re alive.”

Harry had to wait until Ron pulled back before he could speak, both because A) he’d have likely gotten a mouthful of ginger hair had he opened his mouth any earlier and B) with Ron draped over half his chest, it hurt. Quite a lot.

He tried to bite back his pain, fixing his best mate with a small if tight smile. But either Ron knew him too well to be fooled (likely) or Harry was simply rubbish at hiding his emotions (even more likely), for the youngest Weasley son immediately flinched.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” breathed Ron, drawing back so fast one would have thought Harry’s injuries were contagious. “You must be in pain. Harry, I’m…I’m so sorry. Really. We never should have gone to Diagon, and I never should have left you alone. I should have paid more attention, I should have—”

“Mate.”

Ron looked back up, blue eyes a mixture of scared, sad, apologetic and nervous. Harry could barely process them all at once, especially with all the other hundred questions currently zipping through his head.

“Look, mate, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said truthfully, eliciting a few poorly suppressed gasps from the rest of the room. He ignored them all. “But, whatever happened, I know it wasn’t your fault. Okay? So please don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Ron stared at him with so many warring emotions Harry couldn’t even begin to place them. It would have taken too much energy anyway, energy Harry at this point in time did not have enough of as it was, so he didn’t even bother trying.

Eventually, though, Ron said quietly, “You don’t remember?”

Harry nodded. Finally, someone was beginning to understand. “I really don’t.”

“You really don’t?”

“I really, _really_ don’t.”

Ron blinked at him a few times, eyes wide. Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable lying in his hospital bed, unable to so much as sit up but at the same time painfully aware of half a dozen pair of eyes boring into him.

“Well shit.”

It wasn’t Ron who spoke, but Ginny, and despite the mess that was their current relationship, Harry couldn’t have agreed more.

It was Healer Preedan who finally broke the tense silence. “If you don’t mind me asking, what is the last thing you remember, Mr. Potter?”

Before Harry could so much as open his mouth, Healer Hodkinson was already saying, “He’s hardly in a fit state to be interrogated right now, we should let the Aurors—”

“We need to know what happened to properly attend to him,” hissed Healer Preedan. “Not to mention, the _Aurors_ have enough on their plate at the moment. Need I remind you, Yaxley’s murder—”

“Priyawadi! Mr. Potter shouldn’t—”

“ _Enough_ ,” Harry gritted out and slowly but surely forced himself upwards into a seating position, ignoring the Healers’ protests as he did. “It doesn’t matter I just woke up. I don’t _care_. I have a right to know what’s going on here, and if Yaxley…”

He stopped dead, the sentence trailing off right alongside his thoughts. For it was then that Harry noticed the figure standing at the feet of his bed, all tattered, dirty robes and dishevelled hair and skin ten times its usual pallor—which was really saying something, in the case of Draco Malfoy.

When Draco realised Harry was staring at him, his grey eyes went even wider. But he remained still as a statue, not moving an inch, almost as though he were scared to.

Harry was vaguely aware that the conversation had started back up again around him. Or perhaps ‘argument’ would be more fitting, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore. All his focus was pinned on the man with the platinum blond hair and silver eyes, who in turn stared back at Harry as though he were some sort of ghost—and not the friendly type either.

“Mr. Potter? _Mr. Potter_.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard, only to find Healer Preedan looking at him expectantly, while Healer Hodkinson scowled at the floor, Ron watched him nervously and Ginny stood at his side, arms crossed, frowning.

“Sorry, what?” Harry said, doing his very best to keep his gaze from straying back across the room, where he was now hyper-aware of Draco’s presence. It was like a tangible thing, something he could feel deep within himself, almost like a sort of warmth tugging at his attention, calling for him.

Healer Preedan repeated, “What is the last thing you remember? Before waking up just now.”

Harry frowned. “Err…”

What _did_ he remember?

He remembered his disastrous date with Nic; he remembered Yaxley escaping; he remembered Draco coming to get him; he remembered them kissing for what’d felt like hours; he remembered when he’d accidently called Draco his boyfriend and he remembered when they’d officially started dating; he remembered Hermione and Ron coming over and he remembered how supportive they’d been. And then the next day, Draco had gone to the Ministry to talk to Robards, and then…

And then…

And then.

“Draco went to the Ministry,” he said slowly, and although it was more him thinking aloud than anything else, every person in the room seemed to hold their breath. “And Hermione and Ron came over. That’s…all I can remember.”

The reactions were mixed.

“Blimey, that was this morning,” said Ron, obviously unsure whether to be glad or even more upset.

Healer Hodkinson, however, breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good news! At least that’s only a day of memories lost. Could have been much worse, Mr. Potter. You should count yourself lucky.”

“ _Lucky_?” Ginny repeated, expression menacing as she glowered at the man, who in turn—wisely—backed away a few steps. “He doesn’t remember what happened, how he got to Knockturn Alley, or who tried to kill him. How the hell is that _lucky_?”

“And you can’t remember going to Diagon Alley with Mr. Weasley?” asked Healer Preedan.

Harry’s frown deepened. “No. Why did we go to Diagon?”

“Angelina and George’s child,” said Ron, although it came out as more of a wheeze than anything. He looked deathly pale, and Harry might have offered him a seat on the bed if he thought himself capable of moving over.

“Fred?”

“No, Roxanne,” supplied Ginny. “That’s what they’ve decided on naming the baby. Mum’s looking after Fred right now.”

Right, now Harry was completely lost. “The…baby…?”

“Bloody hell, he really doesn’t remember a thing,” Ron said, voice strangled.

Harry was quiet as everyone else started speaking again. Everyone, that is, except Draco.

Blaise was standing beside him, Harry noticed, looking worried. And rightfully so—the typically so put-together blond looked absolutely horrendous. His hair was the messiest Harry had ever seen it, and his robes were actually ruined, that’s how dirty and torn they were. But that wasn’t what made Harry’s chest tighten in worry; it was the look in Draco’s eyes that did it, like someone had died, and that pain was so stark Harry could almost feel it himself.

He must have been staring again, for someone cleared their throat. But Harry didn’t care.

He didn’t care they weren’t alone, that there were other people in the room, most of which had no idea that Draco was Harry’s boyfriend and Harry his, most of which weren’t supposed to know, lest they go running to the Daily Prophet and the news be all over Britain by tomorrow morning.

He took one look at Draco, who looked utterly miserable, and he knew what he had to do. He needed to talk to the Slytherin, alone, talk and make sure he was okay, that something (inordinately) horrible hadn’t happened in the past few hours.

Conversation had resumed all around him, but it stopped when he said suddenly, “Sorry, but can I have a few minutes alone with Auror Malfoy? There are a few things we need to discuss in private, if that’s okay.”

Healer Preedan frowned. “Well, we really ought to run a few more tests…”

Harry was about to protest. But before he could utter a single word, Blaise was already speaking.

“Surely those can be run at some other time? Mr. Potter looks to be in a good enough state, and if he needs to speak with Auror Malfoy, he should be allowed to, don’t you think? I’m sure it’s urgent.”

Harry nodded vehemently. “Oh, yes. Very, very urgent.”

There was a slight pause, and then Healer Preedan opened her mouth again, still looking unconvinced.

“If Harry doesn’t remember anything anyway,” Ron piped up suddenly, “then it’s no use asking him questions, is it? There’ll be more than enough time for that once he gets discharged.”

This time it was Healer Hodkinson who spoke, looking uncertain. “But—”

“Not to mention,” added Blaise, “Mr. Potter should be resting, anyway. After he and Auror Malfoy have their talk, there’s no need to bother him with any further questions. We should let him sleep the day’s stress off. It’s the responsible thing to do at a time like this.”

Harry couldn’t believe his ears. Sure, he’d known Blaise was much cooler a bloke than Harry’d ever given him credit for during their Hogwarts days, but this was next level. This was almost like something…something a _friend_ would do.

Ginny frowned, looking between Ron and Blaise suspiciously, arms still folded tightly. “But we need to know if—”

“Harry’s safe, and he’s alive,” Ron interrupted his sister, shrugging again. “That’s all that matters at the moment. Plus, the sooner he heals, the sooner someone can take a look at his mind and check to see whether he was Obliviated, and whether anything can be salvaged.”

“Exactly,” agreed Blaise, nodding sagely.

“Plus, we should head over to see Mum and the others anyway,” added Ron. “She must be going sparse, what with the baby coming and Harry here and Fred’s incessant crying. Didn’t you say anyway you wanted to be there when Roxanne’s born?”

Ginny pursed her lips. “Well, yes, but Harry—”

“Great! Then that’s settled.” Ron turned to Harry. “You don’t mind us going, right, mate? We can come back in half an hour or so, yeah?”

Harry smiled at his best mate. God, this was why he loved Ron so much. He was a bloody lifesaver. “It’s fine. _I’m_ fine. Really. You two go and help Mrs. Weasley.” He turned to the Healers. “And I really would appreciate some time to rest.”

Healer Preedan, though, was still frowning. “I really don’t think—”

“Oh, just let him,” said Healer Hodkinson, smiling at Harry. “The boy deserves a bit of rest, after everything he’s been through.”

Blaise nodded seriously. “He does. Wouldn’t you agree, Healer Preedan?”

All eyes were on the tall, dark-eyed Healer. Finally, she sighed. “Fine. But if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call us. Just press the button right there, it’ll alert us immediately.”

Harry smiled. “Understood.”

And then everyone was shuffling out of the room—some more willingly than others—and, just like that, Harry and Draco were alone.

Neither spoke for a long, long moment. Draco still wouldn’t move from his spot at the other end of the bed, and Harry didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare breathe too loud lest he somehow scare the other man away. It seemed a genuine possibility, too, what with the Slytherin’s wide, almost haunted-looking eyes, raking over every inch of Harry’s skin as though half-expecting him to fade away any second.

Eventually, Harry couldn’t take it anymore—the tense silence, the restless unease, the apprehension. When paired with his aching body and pounding headache, it was simply all too much.

“So what happened to you?” he said jokingly. “You look like you took on a Hungarian Horntail and lost. Nasty buggers, those are. Can’t recommend.”

It was an awkward, half-hearted attempt to diffuse the tension, but Draco didn’t smile. The sides of his lips didn’t so much as quirk, and Harry worried momentarily whether they’d had some sort of horrible fight during the last twelve hours that he now couldn’t remember. Christ, he hoped not. If he’d somehow managed to get dumped by the single most beautiful human being he’d ever met just a few days after getting together in the first place…well.

That might cause Harry to re-evaluate his previous statement on not being as undateable as a potato after all.

But he needn’t have worried, for Draco finally opened his mouth then and, albeit still looking slightly dazed, said quietly, “You’re okay.”

It sounded more like a question than an actual observation, so Harry gave an awkward little nod. “Err…yeah?” He winced at how feeble that sounded. “I mean, yes. Yes, I am. Perfectly okay, as a matter of fact. Never been bet—”

Before he could ramble on, there was a flash of silver-blond and then Draco’s arms were around him. Unlike Ron’s earlier bear-hug, though, Draco’s hug was gentle, cautious, and yet no less warm, no less affectionate. More so, even, and Harry found himself momentarily unable to breathe at the sheer intensity of _feelings_ that washed over him. The soft pull of warmth he’d felt earlier was like a beacon of light now, streaming through his chest like a tiny sun. Not to mention how wonderful it felt being pressed up against his boyfriend, skin-to-skin, the soft pounding of the Slytherin’s heart like an echo to Harry’s own.

“I thought you were going to die, you prick,” Draco hissed as he finally drew back again.

The absence of him was suddenly so intense Harry had already opened his mouth to protest. But after levelling one particularly murderous glare at him, Draco collapsed onto the bed beside Harry, where the latter had already made room for him. The Gryffindor found that, all of a sudden, it didn’t hurt as much to move anymore, not when it meant being able to inhale more of that wintry scent Draco seemed to carry around everywhere he went, despite it currently being the end of summer.

“Well, surprise,” said Harry, grinning. A grin that only widened when Draco pulled a face, making him laugh. “And here I thought you’d be glad to see I did, in fact, _not_ die. Seems I was wrong.”

He expected Draco to respond with some snarky, sarcastic comment, as was the Slytherin way. Instead, however, his grimace dissolved into thin air, replaced by a tight-lipped _something_ that immediately had Harry’s heart plummeting again.

Draco didn’t look angry anymore, not at all. But Harry found he preferred anger or irritation over the sheer, undeniable _worry_ that was so clearly etched across his boyfriend’s face now. Worry, and something much deeper.

“Harry,” Draco said, only to clear his throat rather forcefully and avert his eyes to look down at the mattress. “I…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you to go to the Ministry. If I’d stayed, if I’d been there, then none of this would have happened, and you wouldn’t be…you wouldn’t have almost—”

Harry could feel his own heart split in two, and he reached out before he could even make the conscious decision to do so, intwining the fingers of his right hand with Draco’s. The latter looked up, surprised, but his expression softened almost immediately as their gazes interlocked.

“I’m fine, okay?” Harry said, squeezing Draco’s hand for emphasis. “And it’s _not_ your fault. Not at all. If anything, I’d wager a guess and say it was most likely _my_ fault. You know how I am. Reckless Gryffindor through and through.”

He chuckled slightly and was glad when Draco smiled as well, even if it was a far cry from his usual humongous smirk.

They sat there on the hospital bed, hands intertwined, gazes interlocked, and Harry couldn’t help but marvel at how utterly _stunning_ Draco looked, even under the harsh lighting, even with the dirty clothes, even with the enormous dark circles hanging under his strikingly silver eyes. Despite everything, he looked rather ethereal, sort of like Harry imagined a fallen angel must look—hell, perhaps even _because_ of everything.

“Did you know you’re beautiful?”

The words came tumbling out of Harry’s mouth before he even realised he’d opened it. However, he didn’t regret them, not one bit.

Draco’s eyes softened, and the affection therein—yes, _affection_ , Harry was sure of it—made him, if possible, even more gorgeous in Harry’s not-so-humble opinion. Especially when it clouded over the worry, the fear, the tension, clouding over and replacing them.

Instead of replying, though, he lifted his free hand to Harry’s face, hovering there for a moment before trailing down the side of his face, his cheek, his jaw, nothing but a whisper of a touch. It stayed there, and Harry leaned into the touch, all the while never breaking eye contact with the Slytherin.

He could feel his heart racing, and he was sure Draco’s must be, too. But when the blond shifted forwards, his motions were so slow and calm you’d have never known, even as he leaned forwards until their noses were nearly touching—and then stopped.

He just _stopped_ , and Harry had to open his eyes again from where they’d already fluttered shut in anticipation, only to find Draco’s silver eyes studying his questioningly.

And then he understood why Draco had stopped; bloody hell, he was _asking permission_. Because he must have noticed Harry’s painful winces when Ron had thrown his arms around him, must have spotted his suppressed little yelps of pain every time he’d tried to sit up.

The knowledge sent a surge of such pure affection rushing through Harry’s veins that he immediately braved the space in between them and fitted his lips against Draco’s. The latter kissed back immediately, if with more caution than he might usually have done, almost like he was afraid _he_ might hurt Harry.

The idea was so ludicrous Harry grabbed the collar of Draco’s ruined shirt and yanked him closer just to show that he could, that he wasn’t some fragile piece of china to be handled with the utmost caution. And Draco seemed to understand, for his hand travelled from where it had been cupping Harry’s jaw to the back of his neck, pulling him in as well.

The kiss lasted for what might have been a few seconds or minutes or hours—the feeling of Draco’s warm, soft lips against his caused Harry to quickly and totally lose all sense of time.

However, eventually (still far too soon, in Harry’s opinion) Draco pulled back again. Harry had expected at least a hint of a smile on his boyfriend’s face—he knew he must certainly be grinning like an idiot.

And although the affection in Draco’s gaze could not be more obvious, there _it_ was as well—that same pained _something_ mirrored in Draco’s eyes as he studied Harry, sort of like apprehension and fear mixed all up in one.

“Harry,” he began slowly. It was the sort of tone that might proceed the words ‘we need to talk’ and were it not for the fact that A) Harry had complete and total trust in both Draco and the state of their relationship, and B) he’d just gotten a fantastic snog, then he might have been a tad worried.

“Draco,” he replied with a smile, hoping it was enough to mask how his heartrate had gone up despite himself, making his gut twist in apprehension.

The sides of Draco’s mouth quirked upwards, which Harry told himself was a good sign. If something had happened between them that he couldn’t remember, something _bad_ , then surely Draco wouldn’t be smiling at him like that. Surely he wouldn’t be looking at Harry like he was the biggest and brightest star in the night sky, like he was the single most important person in the entirety of St. Mungo’s, of Wizarding Britain, of the _world_.

Surely not.

“I should tell you something,” said Draco finally, voice impossibly gentle yet tense at the same time, and Harry couldn’t help but squeeze his hand tighter. Draco squeezed back without hesitation, but then continued, “I probably should have told you this a long time ago. I suppose I was just too afraid. Scared how you might react. To be perfectly honest, I’m still scared how you might react. But after almost losing you today, I’ve realised…well, I _need_ to tell you.”

He took a deep breath, gripping Harry’s hand, if possible, even tighter. “You see, it’s…about my soulmark. My soulmate, to be more precise.”

Harry forgot to breathe. Either that, or perhaps his heart just stopped working entirely, split in two by that horrid sensation of fear that had suddenly gripped him and wouldn’t let go.

_Draco’s soulmate_. Bloody hell.

He’d known of course that they existed, that they’d been a part of Draco’s life and, in a way, always would be. But he’d never wasted too much thought on the whole soulmate-issue, both because he didn’t know what to think of it anyway, and because he didn’t want to think anything of it in the first place. He didn’t want to think about it at all.

The thought that Draco had once loved this mysterious someone whose name would forever be etched into the skin of his right wrist made Harry want to break something, especially knowing how much pain this nameless, faceless tosser had inflicted on Harry’s boyfriend, if that very first conversation over breakfast all those weeks ago was anything to go by.

He’d known this would come up eventually. It was the responsible, healthy thing to do, to let it all hang out and put the truth first, always.

And yet.

Harry _hated_ thinking about someone else spending the rest of their life with Draco, dating him, kissing him, snuggling up on the couch together and falling asleep watching some old muggle film the Slytherin would no doubt make fun of at first but end up loving. He _hated_ the idea of someone else going through life by Draco’s side, getting married one day, maybe even having children. He _hated_ the idea of someone else being there for Draco throughout it all, throughout life, watching their children grow up and then ultimately growing old together.

He _hated_ the idea of someone else being Draco’s ‘forever’, and there was only a single reason for it.

Harry hated it, because he wanted that ‘someone’ to be _him_. It was as simple as that, and it was as hard as that. He wanted it so much it was suddenly all he could think about, all he could feel; he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his entire life, needed it more than he could ever remember needing something.

And so, before Draco could utter the words Harry was so averse to hearing, the Gryffindor shook his head.

“No.”

Draco’s eyebrows snapped together, and he opened his mouth to speak again, to no doubt tell Harry anyway because it was the right thing to do. But Harry didn’t care. He didn’t want to hear who this mystery person was that had claimed such a humongous and important piece of Draco’s life, didn’t want to know who Draco’s predestined love was meant to be.

“Just…don’t. Please. You don’t have to tell me, you don’t have to say anything.” He folded both his hands over Draco’s. “It doesn’t matter to me, okay? It _doesn’t_. Whoever they are, I don’t care.”

Draco was blinking rapidly, and Harry could have sworn his silver eyes twinkled brighter than usual. He cleared his throat again. “Harry…”

“ _No_.” Harry didn’t know why his heart was beating so fast right now, why his lungs felt so constricted, why his heart suddenly hurt so very much, like it was being squeezed to death by a pair of invisible hands. “We have each other now, right? You and me. So what does it matter what happened in the past?”

And suddenly Draco was smiling. He was smiling so hard it was more of a beam than anything, the sort that lit up not only his entire face, but the entire room, and it made his eyes twinkle like a million crushed diamonds, making it impossible for Harry to look away even had he wanted to—which he decidedly did not.

“Harry,” Draco said again, and the Gryffindor didn’t know what was going on right now, but still that smile alone loosened something in his chest, making it easier to breathe again. Some might say it worked like magic. “Harry, oh my _gods_. Just shut up and listen, will you, you complete and utter moron?”

“I don’t—” Harry began, but was silenced when Draco surged forwards and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

When the Slytherin drew back again, his smile was even brighter, and Harry couldn’t help but grin as well; it wasn’t his fault Draco’s smiles were so infectious.

“Yes, you do. You’re going to shut up now,” the blond repeated, “and you’re going to let me finish, alright? Trust me, you’ll want to hear this.”

Harry sincerely doubted that. But, when faced with that _look_ , all he could do was clamp his mouth shut and nod dumbly.

Draco must have been able to read his expression, though, for his expression softened slightly and he said gently, “You do trust me, right?”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Completely.”

The Slytherin smiled again. And then he extricated his right hand from Harry’s grip, pulling back the sleeve of his (previously) white dress shirt. He looked up into Harry’s eyes again and, without ever breaking eye contact, undid the leather band he always wore fastened around his soulmark, letting it drop onto the mattress.

Harry swallowed hard, let his eyes rake over Draco’s face one last time—and then he looked.

He looked down at Draco’s soulmark, and his heart stopped.

Because there it was.

Three words, one name.

_Harry James Potter_.

His name.

And it was all written in the same exact same slanted scrawl of his _D_.

Harry didn’t know how long he stared at the writing, didn’t know how long he stopped breathing, didn’t know how long time and space seemed to come to a screeching halt as his world rearranged itself around him, breaking apart and reassembling itself in the most magnificent way.

_His_ name. Draco had _his_ name on his wrist, _his_ name as his soulmark. Which meant…

He finally tore his gaze away from the beautiful writing only to look back up into Draco’s face, whose expression was something caught between apprehension and affection. His silver eyes were already on Harry, and he was biting his lip, evidently anxious and not even trying to hide it as he usually would.

Which meant this wonderful person Harry’d come to care for so, his arrogant, pretentious toff, his boyfriend…was simultaneously his soulmate.

Harry’s. Soulmate.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, and Draco laughed, a bit of the tension seeping from his shoulders as he did. The sound was mesmerising, as was the grin playing across his face.

“Well, that’s certainly not the reaction I was going for,” he said. “But I’ll take it. Besides, I suppose I really shouldn’t be surprised, you _are_ Harry Potter after all, the world’s most illiterate Auro—”

He was cut short as Harry’s lips crashed back against his. The Gryffindor threw his arms around Draco, his _soulmate_ , and the action didn’t even hurt anymore; there was no room for pain inside Harry, not when he was filled to the brim with such incredible, undimmable _joy_ , with such pure affection it made his heart feel like bursting.

No, not just affection. Not anymore. Not when all Harry wanted was _this_ , was his forever with Draco, his soulmate. Not when it felt so much bigger, that emotion coursing through his veins, pumping through his bloodstream, not when there was a word that described it so much better.

_Love_.

Harry loved Draco. Perhaps this emotion was new, perhaps he always had—it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was that Harry knew it, and so would Draco.

Harry had always been the type of person to act first, think never. He’d always been just a tad bit reckless, just a tad bit impatient, always done what he felt was right, consequences be damned. After all, you only had one life, so you’d better live it to the fullest or risk regretting it later.

And so when he pulled back, breathless and grinning so wide it hurt, he didn’t think twice before saying, “I love you.”

Draco stilled, and his eyes went impossibly wide. He didn’t speak, he didn’t move an inch, he didn’t even breathe.

The hospital room was impossibly quiet, so utterly silent you could have easily heard a pin drop. It was like they were somehow suspended in time, like the whole world was under a stasis charm more powerful than even Avada Kedavra.

For a split second, Harry feared he’d done something stupid. That he’d ruined it, ruined this moment, the sort of moment you were supposed to remember until the day you died, the sort of moment you’d tell your children about one day.

The sort of moment that was life-changing, and in the most beautiful of ways.

But then a single tear rolled down the side of Draco’s face, and he smiled at Harry and breathed, “I love you, too. Merlin, Harry, I love you so much, you have no idea.”

And just as Harry’s throat started closing up and he could feel his own eyesight get blurry, a burning sensation spread across his right wrist. He inhaled sharply, not because it hurt but because it had simply caught him off guard.

Draco, too, started in surprise, smile slipping as worry clouded over his face instead. “Shit, is the pain starting back up again? I can go get one of the Healers if you want, I can—”

He stopped speaking, the words dying in his throat. For just like Harry, Draco’s gaze had dropped to Harry’s wrist, the one that had been previously inscribed with a large, cursive _D_.

It wasn’t anymore.

“Salazar,” Draco breathed, his tone nothing more than a strangled whisper. Harry could full-heartedly echo that sentiment, even if he was a Gryffindor at heart.

And when he looked back up at Draco, who was still staring down at Harry’s soulmark like it was the eighth world wonder, Harry didn’t even care he was crying. He didn’t care he must look and sound like the biggest fucking sap of all time, didn’t care that he was still bruised and battered and being hunted by some maniac killer.

All he cared about was the person right in front of him, and that was all he’d ever need.

Harry laughed, and then he’d wrapped his arms around Draco’s neck again and they were kissing. And Harry’s wrist still tingled slightly as the black ink of his soulmark settled into his skin forever, forming the one name it had always been meant to form.

_Draco Lucius Malfoy_.

His soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did briefly wonder whether this was too sappy, but then I figured these two idiots deserve it after all the shit they've been through (and will continue to be :)).  
> Plus  
> Is there even such a thing as 'too sappy'????   
> I mean honestly.


	22. to keep you company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers!  
> So I've been asked a few times how long this fic is going to be. The plan is a total of about 25-30 chapters, probably closer to 30, maybe even a few more. I know this answer is incredibly vague, and I apologise for that, but I just genuinely don't know xD. These characters have a mind of their own, and don't even get me started on the story line...  
> Anyway, I hope you're all having a great day!  
> Enjoy!

“Stop fidgeting, Potter,” said Pansy, shooting Harry a warning sort of glare. Except it could hardly be called a glare, much less a warning one, though Harry had no doubt that had been the Slytherin’s objective.

Perhaps a better description would be…exasperatedly affectionate. Or fondly frustrated.

Not that Harry would ever dare voice such thoughts aloud. Merlin, if he did, it wouldn’t matter one bit that he was her best friend’s soulmate—Pansy would skin him alive.

So, with that in mind, Harry tried to sit still. To calm down just enough to quit squirming around underneath the white, thin sheets St. Mungo’s had provided, and stop. Wait. Be patient.

The emphasis, of course, lying squarely on ‘tried’.

“Draco dearest,” the raven-haired girl said, turning in one swift motion to where the blond in question sat on the other side of the bed, one hand intertwined with Harry’s fingers, the other tapping an impatient beat on the mattress below. “Be a darling and tell your idiot boyfriend to stop fidgeting, will you, otherwise I can’t guarantee I won’t hex his bollocks off right here and now.”

Blaise, who stood leaning against the doorframe by Pansy’s chair, snorted, raising an eyebrow. “Hmm, you sure? I highly doubt Draco would appreciate that.”

Harry could feel his cheeks redden, and Draco glowered at both his friends.

“Wankers, the both of you,” he grumbled. “I never should have asked you to come.”

Pansy pouted, splaying her bloodred-lacquered fingers across her heart. “Why, Draco, you wound me. And here I thought we were friends.” She glanced at Blaise. “Clearly, we’ve been replaced. And by a _Gryffindor_ , no less.”

Blaise snorted again. “And to think, I cancelled a date for that ungrateful bastard.”

“What?” shrieked Pansy, at the same time that Harry said, “A _date_?” and Draco exclaimed, “With who?”

Blaise chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. “Nah, not saying. Especially not after you so rudely replaced me with _Scarhead_ of all people. I get he’s fit and all, but what happened to bros before hoes?”

There was a beat of silence.

And just like that, Pansy started cackling—yes, _cackling_ , there was no other word for it—while Draco shot Blaise the sort of glare that could level entire civilisations and turn metropolises into wastelands, while Harry just stared very intently down at his bedsheets, cheeks now full-out burning.

Fucking hell, what had he gotten himself into?

Once she’d once again recovered from her laughing frenzy, Pansy wiped at her eyes, careful not to smudge her makeup, then crossed her ankles with the fluid elegance of a born-and-raised pureblood.

The woman rested her chin on the back of her hand and regarded Harry, a large smirk still dancing across her bloodred lips. “All jokes aside, though, you couldn’t have kept us away if you’d tried. Golden Boy’s practically family now, isn’t he? And us Slytherins are nothing if not loyal to our family.”

Harry wasn’t sure whether she was being sarcastic or genuinely sweet. She was a Slytherin through and through, so most likely the latter. Except, somewhere along the line, Harry had grown to like the illustrious Pansy Parkinson, spiky words and even spikier heels included. She reminded him of both Hermione and Ginny, if Hermione were meaner and blunter, and Ginny were…well, more Slytherin.

So, because of this—for let it be known that Harry Potter did possess a basic understanding of good manners, contrary to what Draco might claim—he sent her a thankful little smile…and was, mere moments later, pleasantly surprised to find it mirrored back at him, if slightly more smirk-like than smiley. And with more teeth, pearly-white, straight, and disturbingly sharp.

Draco huffed something under his breath, glare boring menacingly into the mattress, but Harry wasn’t concerned. _Slytherins_. Nasty, insufferable tossers, the lot of them.

Good god, Harry was completely smitten.

“So,” said Pansy, rolling her stiletto-clad ankle. “How much longer until the Healers get here to do their final check-up? Didn’t you say they were supposed to be here by noon? We’ve been waiting for an hour at the very least. I’m _bored_.”

Draco rolled his eyes, though one didn’t need to be his soulmate to see how utterly impatient the blond was himself. “If _Harry_ can manage to entertain himself for three whole days, then I’m sure you’ll manage for an hour, Pans.”

Harry started spluttering indignantly, but Pansy just laughed.

“Tempting,” she drawled, “but no thanks. I have a feeling my sense of ‘entertainment’ and that of Harry here differ quite a bit. Not that I didn’t enjoy fake-dating you back at Hogwarts in an effort to convince our parents we were straight—which, I’d just like to point out, failed spectacularly—but I’m afraid I wouldn’t snog you if you paid me for it.”

Harry huffed and gripped Draco’s hand tighter. “I sure hope not.”

Harry found that, ever since they’d made things official, he was quite a bit more protective of Draco, despite knowing the other man could take care of himself perfectly well—even more so since his soulmark had appeared. He may or may not have snapped at Healer Hodkinson just that morning when the man had let loose another offhand remark about Draco’s ‘unsavoury life choices’, as he’d so poetically phrased it.

Now Harry was pretty sure the older man was scared of him.

He found his mood instantly brightened, however, by the adorable little smile that now spread its way across Draco’s face, soft and lopsided and clearly not voluntary. It was accompanied by the gentlest of blushes, the sort Harry’s skin hid well, while Draco’s, on the other hand, did not.

And Harry was infinitely glad for that fact, because the sight made his heart soar.

“Anyway,” said Blaise, crossing his arms from where he still stood in the doorway, his white Healer’s robes falling open to reveal a green dress shirt with black trousers underneath. Jesus, Harry thought incredulously, were all Slytherins this… _Slytherin_? “If you two lovebirds aren’t too busy staring at each other, by all means, enlighten us. What has our favourite Saviour been doing to pass his time while stuck in this prison of a hospital?”

Pansy grinned. “Save for snogging Draco, of course.”

Blaise nodded severely. “My apologies. Let me rephrase that: What has our favourite Saviour been doing to pass his time in this prison of a hospital, save for snogging Draco? Please, I’m genuinely interested. Three whole days cooped up in here—I’d have never thought you capable of such a feat.”

Draco loosened a sigh, rolling his eyes at his friends. But instead of telling them both to kindly fuck off, the blond picked up the newspaper that had been previously lying on top of Harry’s nightstand and tossed it across the room to Pansy, all the while dutifully ignoring Harry’s protests.

“If you must know, he spent most of yesterday and this morning seething about this.”

Pansy caught the newspaper and skimmed the front page, dark eyebrows immediately lifting sky-high. Blaise peeked over her shoulder, and his mouth almost instantly formed a grim line.

“‘Corban Yaxley: The complete story behind his escape from Azkaban, attempted assassination of War-Hero and Saviour Harry Potter, and eventual murder’,” Pansy read aloud, then looked back up immediately, smirk gone.

Her dark eyes had narrowed to slits, but Harry thought to glimpse genuine concern underneath her heavy lashes. “Wait, how the hell were they allowed to publish that?! It’s an ongoing investigation, for fuck’s sake, the Auror Department—”

“They commissioned it,” Draco answered darkly. Harry glanced at his boyfriend, only to find his mouth set into a tight scowl.

“Sorry, _what_?” Blaise hissed. For someone known for their unrufflable calm, he looked downright furious. “You never told me that.”

Harry knew he’d seen the article already; after all, Blaise was the one face Harry had seen day in and day out for the duration of his stay at St. Mungo’s, excluding Draco, Ron and Hermione. Plus, it was true that Harry had been, well…a bit hung up on the article. And that was putting it mildly.

“Yes, well,” Draco continued, “it’s the truth. Apparently, that was what Robards had wanted to tell me the other day when he asked to see me in his office. The Ministry decided things weren’t progressing fast enough, so they had the article written up in the hopes of raising public awareness or some hippogriff shite. There’s a whole section in there asking the public to present any and all information they might have on Yaxley and his accomplice to the Auror Department.”

“Except Yaxley’s dead,” Pansy said.

Draco gave a bitter huff of a laugh. “Well, he wasn’t when the article was drafted. That whole shebang was added once the news broke. I suppose after a break-in at the Ministry, Head Auror Robards’ attempted murder, _Harry’s_ attempted murder, and the entirety of Knockturn Alley being closed off for the better part of a day, covering everything up again was simply too much work.”

There was a round of silence, and suddenly Harry very much missed the carefree atmosphere from before, even if that did entail Pansy and Blaise making fun of him; he’d take that over this grim feeling of _something_ any day of the week.

“So, it’s all in there, then?” Pansy finally broke the silence, eyeing the article distastefully, as though it were a can of flobberworms.

Harry nodded grimly. “Everything.”

The poisoning on his birthday; Draco being assigned as his protection; the attack in Diagon after their visit to Renaults and Co; Yaxley’s capture and subsequent escape; him openly admitting his accomplice had orchestrated the Azkaban breakout almost five months ago; Yaxley breaking into Robards’ office and injuring the Head Auror; Draco going after him; Yaxley’s accomplice murdering him in cold blood, only to slice up Harry as well.

It was all there, for the whole fucking world to read. And whereas such an article might have helped them find Yaxley, they had nothing to go on when it came to his accomplice. They were a shadow, a ghost, a nameless, faceless person who could very well be just outside the door, waiting for Harry to leave before making their next and final move.

Pansy shook her head, running a hand through her perfectly slick bob. “Fuck.”

Harry had just opened his mouth to reply, when the doors across the room flew open and in marched Healer Hodkinson. The man froze dead in his tracks the moment he realised just who was keeping Harry company, and he blinked, startled, eyes darting between Pansy and Draco, evidently unsure which ‘who’ was worse.

Draco drew back his hand from where it had until moments before rested on the bed, tangled in Harry’s, the motion so lightning-fast even Harry might not have caught it—were it not, of course, for the burst of cold that seeped from his fingers up his arm and into his chest at the sudden loss of contact.

But he swallowed his discomfort. It was better this way; if anyone save for Pansy, Blaise, Hermione and Ron were to find out about them, they’d be in trouble, to say the least. And neither he nor Draco needed that on top of everything else that was going on right now.

Healer Hodkinson was quiet for another long moment. Then, finally, he said, and it was fully possible his voice was squeakier than normal, “Mr. Potter. I see you have…guests. And here I’d thought you’d be spending your time with Mr. Weasley and Mrs. Granger.”

An incredulous laugh sounded (probably Pansy), and Harry’s mouth set into a tight frown. It was hard to keep his voice level as he answered, “Yes, well, I’m afraid you just missed them. They were here an hour ago but left to spend some quality time with the newest Weasley. Roxanne was born just the other day, in case you haven’t heard.”

The now-youngest Weasley was absolutely adorable. Harry had only briefly met little Roxanne that very morning before she, her mum and her dad left for the Burrow, where Fred had been staying with Molly and Arthur for the past few days. But it hadn’t taken more than a single look at her for Harry’s heart to go warm and his eyes to tear up. And it wasn’t even his fault.

The little one was too cute for her own bloody good.

Ron and Hermione had been basically living in his hospital room for the past three days, so when the Weasleys had all gone back to the Burrow, Harry had talked them into going, too. He was glad when they’d finally agreed; they deserved some peace and quiet after all the stress of the last couple of days.

Healer Hodkinson’s mouth thinned into a grim line, and with his lips already being extremely thin as it was, they suddenly looked almost non-existent.

“Hmm,” he said simply, and the man’s transparency might have made Harry laugh, were it not also so very vexing. “Well then. The good news is, you’ll be allowed to leave in just a few moments, Mr. Potter. If your guests would kindly step outside while we finish up these last few check-ups—”

“They can stay,” said Harry without hesitation.

Healer Hodkinson looked distressed. “But I’m sure it’d be more comfortable for you if you had some privacy—”

“They can stay.” Harry gritted his teeth in an effort to keep from yelling the words. _Calm_. St. Mungo’s was no place for temper tantrums. “If they want to leave, they can go. But if they want to stay, that’s fine, too.”

He glanced around the room, as did Healer Hodkinson. To Blaise, who still stood leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, looking completely calm and in no hurry to leave; to Pansy, legs crossed and shoulders back, who simply watched the Healer under raised brows, nose wrinkled in obvious distaste; to Draco, who may not be clutching Harry’s hand anymore but hadn’t moved an inch from his chair at the side of Harry’s bed, now fixing Healer Hodkinson with the type of glare that promised a slow and painful death.

“Nah,” said Harry and turned back to the Healer, smiling ever so slightly. “I think we’re good.”

~~~

“Come _on_.”

Draco couldn’t suppress a smile as his idiot boyfriend—his idiot, excruciatingly _Gryffindor_ boyfriend—pulled him down the hallway, grinning from ear to ear and running so fast it was a wonder he didn’t trip over his own feet.

He ought to be annoyed. And with anyone else, Draco _would_ be. Sprinting down a St. Mungo’s hallway, hand-in-hand, all the while grinning like loons…well, it was completely unsophisticated, wasn’t it? A pureblood such as himself shouldn’t be caught dead doing something so unrefined. He had no doubt his ancestors were rolling in their graves.

But that’s just it; this wasn’t ‘anyone else’—this was _Harry_. And, as he so often had in the past and would likely continue to do until the day he died, Draco could make an exception for the Boy Who Lived. Could, and would, if only to see that blindingly bright smile a few moments longer.

“Salazar, Potter,” he huffed, dragging his heels. After all, he couldn’t have Harry thinking he’d gone soft or anything so demeaning. “You may have been discharged a full ten minutes ago, but I highly doubt Healer Hodkinson would appreciate you sprinting down the hallways like a maniac.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder—and there it was, that radiant smile that immediately had Draco’s heart missing a beat and the corners of his own mouth involuntarily lifting a little higher.

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t give a flying fuck what Healer Hodkinson thinks, eh?”

Those stupidly green eyes of his danced with such pure joy it made Draco’s heart skip a beat, and all he could do was stare and think ‘That’s my soulmate, and he loves me’.

Never in his life had a single sentence sounded so utterly right.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” was all Draco said, however, voice pitifully strained. Harry grinned, and so the blond cleared his throat before adding evenly, “I don’t think he appreciated a bunch of Slytherins ‘keeping you company’. Honestly, he looked quite distressed.”

Harry barked a laugh. “Imagine how he’d react if he knew we were dating.”

Draco couldn’t help but smile at that. “Why, the poor man would have a heart attack.”

At this, Harry chuckled—and immediately froze again, eyes widening ever so slightly. And then, because clearly Draco’s soulmate was a complete nutcase, he reached out and swatted at Draco’s arm, pulling a face as he said, “Ugh, I shouldn’t be laughing. _You_ shouldn’t be laughing. That isn’t funny. Christ, you’re a bad influence.”

Draco immediately relaxed again, and he rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, har har, call the Slytherin a bad influence. How very original. You know what I think? I think _you’re_ the bad influence here.”

The Gryffindor’s eyebrows shot sky-high, and he crossed his arms, coming to a complete stop as he turned to face Draco. “Oh _really_?”

Draco folded his arms as well, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly. “ _Really_.”

They stood in a narrow, deserted corridor somewhere on the first floor, and the Slytherin hadn’t seen another person since they’d exited the elevator. And yet it was only then that it hit Draco how very alone they currently were, and he could feel his heartrate speed up despite himself.

Except then Harry’s crooked grin widened, and all of a sudden he took a large step forwards. Draco stepped back instinctively, and immediately cursed himself for it. Salazar, they were _dating_ , why was he suddenly acting like a blustering schoolboy?!

Only Harry didn’t seem to mind, and he just grinned in that excruciatingly endearing way of his, his hair hanging loosely around his face, looking after three days of bedrest even more unkempt than usual. Damn, Draco wanted to reach out and tuck that stray lock of hair behind his boyfriend’s ear, where the small diamond stud twinkled tantalisingly.

But although he really, really wanted to, he didn’t. He just stood there, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do _anything_ other than stare into those disgustingly beautiful green eyes and think to himself that perhaps this was its own brand of torture in itself.

But then the Gryffindor’s mouth twitched up to the side. “Me, a bad influence?” The words were barely more than a whisper, and yet they felt ridiculously loud in the static silence of the corridor. That crooked smile widened even more. “Fine, if you insist.”

And before Draco could so much as form another thought, Harry’s lips had crashed against his. At the force of the impact, the blond staggered back another step, and was met with a very hard, very solid wall.

But Harry didn’t relent, and soon Draco was kissing back, even before his brain could process the sheer ridiculousness of the whole situation—them, snogging, in some random corridor in St. Mungo’s, where anyone could walk by at any second.

But then Harry deepened the kiss, and the Slytherin’s brain completely short-circuited.

Draco wouldn’t lie; he’d imagined snogging Harry Potter plenty of times over the years. The very first time he could remember giving it active thought would have to be on the night of the Yuletide Ball back in Fourth Year. He had no doubt he’d been pining after the dark-haired Gryffindor for years before that, perhaps even since that very first fateful meeting at Madame Malkin’s. But it was on that historic evening in December of 1994, as all of Hogwarts twinkled like a snowy winter wonderland and students danced their way across the Great Hall until their feet were sore, that Draco realised just how far gone he truly was.

And that Harry Potter was actually an extremely fit bloke with extremely kissable lips.

Ever since then, it had been an endless spiral of pining, and since Draco never thought he’d actually get to kiss Harry, he’d simply imagined it.

But nothing— _nothing_ —he’d ever thought up over the years came close to how absolutely bloody _perfect_ the experience truly was. Not because Harry was the best kisser in the universe—although Draco legitimately believed this to be true; not that he’d ever _tell_ Harry that—but because _it was Harry_.

And call him a sentimental sap, but for Draco that was reason enough.

His hands went up to tangle in Harry’s hair, and in response the latter’s grip on his shirt collar tightened, pulling him closer. Not that Draco could have moved if he’d wanted to (which, it should be stressed, he did not); the wall pressing against his back and the Harry crowded against his front effectively held him in place.

All of a sudden, Harry started to draw back again, panting ever so slightly. And although Draco’s own lungs were screaming for air, chest tight, head a spinning, reeling mess, the abrupt conclusion to their kiss sent a pang of protest through his entire body. His hands reached out before he could even formulate the thought to do so, fisting around the Gryffindor’s shirt and crashing their lips back together.

Harry made a startled little sound, but he didn’t pull back again. Instead, he melted into the kiss, arms looping around Draco’s neck—and then they were full-out snogging again, completely uncaring that they were technically in public, out in the open, where anyone could see them.

Draco felt like he was wearing his heart on his sleeve, exposed, unprotected, practically begging to be trampled and wrecked and destroyed beyond repair. He’d done many a risky thing in his life—joining Voldemort, defecting, going into Auror training, running after Yaxley without backup. And yet the biggest risk he’d ever taken was _this_ , befriending Harry, kissing him, throwing caution to the wind and telling him the truth.

To be perfectly frank, Draco couldn’t remember a time in his entire life that he’d ever felt so utterly vulnerable, so completely and utterly defenceless.

And, Merlin, it felt _good_.

Harry had just started doing something incredibly distracting with his tongue when it happened—a muffled ‘oh’ sounded from across the corridor, and Draco whirled around so fast he risked whiplash, heart very nearly coming to a stop.

He didn’t know who he’d expected to see; perhaps some poor, unassuming nurse on her way to see a patient, or an exhausted Trainee Healer running on nothing but caffeine and the alluring promise of (eventual) sleep. But it was neither of those two options that stood on the other side of the corridor, eyebrows raised sky-high, eyes wide.

Harry, of course, was the first to break the pregnant silence. “Nic?”

Salazar’s balls, Draco thought miserably, not _that_ bastard.

But it was indeed Dominic Hayes standing there, staring at them with a mixture of surprise and…something else. Despite being a natural at reading people’s expressions, Draco couldn’t for the life of him figure out what that ‘something’ was, and it darkened his mood even further. Which, it should be stressed, after having a perfectly good snog with his soulmate interrupted by none other than _Dominic sodding Hayes_ , was already foul.

Hayes just stared at them for another long moment, expression unreadable, and Draco clenched his jaw, bracing himself for a jolly good round of homophobia. Except then he realised abruptly, oh wait, no, Hayes was queer himself. After all, the bastard had tried to get with Draco’s boyfriend.

And, will you look at that, now Draco’s mood was downright homicidal.

Finally, Hayes nodded curtly. “Oh, um, hey.” The man’s blue eyes flitted from Harry to Draco, where they stayed for a long moment. “Sorry, I, err…I just—” He shook his head. “Are you two together?”

Blunt. Straight to the point. Usually, Draco would have appreciated the candour. However, when it came from _Hayes_ , he found his jaw clenching painfully, eyes narrowing into slits.

There was another pause, in which Hayes just stood there, looking in between the two of them, eyebrows still raised, while Draco simply glared at him and Harry—

Draco glanced at Harry, only to find him standing still as a statue, rooted to the spot, looking at Nic with an expression impossible to describe. It was panic, definitely, and a sliver of guilt, because this was _Harry_ after all, and he had so much empathy in him you could probably fill the Great Lake with it.

But then there was also…something else. A pensive sort of something, like a deja-vu moment, only ten times stronger.

Draco couldn’t repress the surge of concern that struck him then, but he knew he couldn’t very well ask what was wrong, not here, not now, not with the current company. So, instead he turned his attention back on Nic, and said unhesitatingly, “Yes. Yes, we are.”

Hayes was silent for a moment, and another flash of something flickered across his eyes. Draco gritted his teeth, becoming rapidly annoyed with all the ‘something’s he was so unable to place.

Then the American nodded. “Well, um, good for you, I suppose.”

Draco was certain he must have misheard the man. Because this couldn’t be the same bloke that had interrupted them that first night at the pub just to bat his eyes at the Boy Who Lived for thirty minutes straight, who’d come to their flat with the sole intention of flirting with him and giving him a basket of bloody _beignets_ , who’d never once missed an opportunity to show how very poorly he thought of Draco—who’d asked Harry out on a sodding date, for Salazar’s sake!

Either Hayes was pretending not to care, or something else was going on here. Either way, though, the bastard was acting suspicious, and Draco didn’t like it one bit.

“So, you’re here because…?” he began, lifting an eyebrow of his own as he eyed the other man with a sneer.

Hayes stiffened, and for a split-second there it was: the dislike Draco had expected, sizzling hot and intense as his eyes narrowed at Draco. But then the moment had passed, and Hayes focused his attention back on Harry, ignoring Draco as though he weren’t even there in the first place.

“I just came by to see how you’re doing,” he said. “I heard about Yaxley, or, well, read about, and I figured you might appreciate some company.” His eyes darted back to Draco. “But I see I needn’t have worried.”

He said it with a slight laugh, but it was entirely half-hearted and thus didn’t convince Draco in the slightest. Harry was still looking at Nic oddly, and he didn’t laugh either.

Nic cleared his throat. “Right. So, anyway, I don’t want to bother you or anything. But I must confess, Harry, I’m curious; what exactly happened? The papers were incredibly vague on that front.”

Draco scowled, anger simmering up in his chest. The _nerve_ of that bastard. “Funnily enough, that’s none of your business—”

“I don’t remember.”

Both Hayes’ and Draco’s gazes snapped back to Harry, whose expression was now one of vague confusion as opposed to his initial absentminded trance. Draco’s boyfriend cleared his throat, and repeated, “Honestly, I don’t remember a thing. Last thing I recall, Mione, Ron and I were at the flat, and Draco was at the Ministry. Apparently, I lost my memories of a full day.” He frowned. “But, Nic, I should apologise about last week. The date—”

Hayes waved a dismissive hand, and that’s when Draco knew for sure the git was planning something. There was no other explanation, especially after he said, “No worries, all is forgiven. Would I have liked to go on a few more dates with you? Sure. Who wouldn’t? But I suppose we can’t all have what we want, right?”

His gaze darted to Draco as he uttered that last sentence, and although he was smiling ever so slightly, something in Hayes’ eyes made the Slytherin tense up. Without meaning to, Draco’s right hand gripped Harry’s, who in turn squeezed back immediately.

Hayes gaze dropped to their intertwined hands, and his mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

“Right then,” said Draco, having had enough of this. A perfectly good flat was waiting for them, where it only took one quick locking of the Floo and they’d be safe from unwanted company for as long as they liked. “We’d best get going now. Surely you have… _things_ to do as well.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but all he said was, tone deceptively even, “Of course, _Malfoy_. Wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

Something about the way Hayes said his surname sent a shudder of alarm coasting down Draco’s spine. Probably just the intense and all-consuming dislike that couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d tried.

Whatever it was, though, it had Draco gripping his boyfriend’s hand tighter still and pulling him down the corridor without another word, sure Harry would understand. After all, he figured, it was in everyone’s best interest that Draco not punch Dominic Hayes in the face then in there.

They passed Hayes, and Draco refused to so much as glance at the man, his shoulders tensing up despite himself, gaze trained doggedly ahead.

But then Harry paused, and since their hands were still intertwined and Draco wasn’t about to let go, he was forced to stop as well, frowning as Harry looked at Hayes with that same concentrated, thoughtful expression he’d worn earlier.

Hayes had stiffened as well. “Yes? Is something wrong?”

A long moment of silence, in which both Hayes and Draco watched the Gryffindor, who didn’t answer, simply stood there and looked at Nic.

Concern pushed itself up Draco’s throat again, and he, too, asked, “Harry? Is everything alright?”

The answer to that question was very obviously a no, and Draco decided that, yes, they needed to return to the flat as soon as possible. Harry probably shouldn’t have been running like that just minutes after being discharged, and the snogging likely hadn’t helped either.

But then Harry shook his head, as though awakening from a trance, and confusion overtook his face again. He grinned awkwardly and shook his head. “Err, yeah. Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” He offered Hayes a polite incline of the head. “See you around, Nic. And sorry again.”

Hayes, still tense, simply nodded. “Yeah. See you around.”

Draco didn’t like the look in his eyes, not one bit. He couldn’t for the life of him say what the man was thinking, although judging by the set of his jaw and stiffness of his posture, it wasn’t anything particularly pleasant. It unnerved him, and so he murmured a quick ‘let’s go’ to Harry, who nodded, and, with renewed determination, Draco marched them down the hallway, not sparing another glance over his shoulder despite the undeniable sensation of Hayes’ eyes drilling into the back of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we'll be meeting a character I actually love a lot, despite her not-so-great taste in men xD


	23. properly, this time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember back when I freaked out about posting two days late? Good times, good times.  
> Anyway, I am SO sorry I didn’t update for a whole month, life was just particularly chaotic. I’m not going to go into detail, but it was 1) a shit-ton of school-induced stress, 2) an even bigger shit-ton of family-induced stress, and 3) all in all a really, really horrible time for my mental health. But things are looking up rn (I’m hoping) and I’ve finally had some time to write. Yayyyyy!  
> We’re slowly but surely nearing the end of this beast of a fic. To everyone who’s still here, reading, leaving kudos and/or commenting: I LOVE YOU WITH ALL MY HEART. Y’all make life bearable.  
> And now, without ANY further ado, enjoy!

When Draco had sent off the letter to Azkaban almost a week prior, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Lucius Malfoy was and always had been a difficult individual, prideful until the very end, not to mention stubborn as hell. Draco couldn’t possibly count how many times he’d been told how he was ‘just like his father, bless him’, however far from the truth that might be—Draco took after his mother in all the ways that mattered.

He hadn’t expected some heartfelt apology, hadn’t even expected Lucius to reply at all. Going on past experiences alone, Draco could say with complete certainty that being actually helpful was beyond the man’s capabilities.

He had _not_ , however, expected the response to come in the form of one Narcissa Malfoy.

So when none other than the Malfoy matriarch stepped through the Floo, face as smooth as ever, silvery hair falling in elegant curls to her tailbone, white skirts fluttering around her ankles as though carried by some phantom wind…well, Draco figured his reaction—namely almost falling off the couch where he’d until seconds ago sat curled up against his soulmate, the latter’s head resting on his shoulder—was perfectly understandable.

Harry’s reaction, on the other hand, was much less contained, and so there was little Draco could do before his boyfriend had already jumped up, wand out and pointed at the ‘intruder’. Which would have been a commendable reaction, were it not for the fact that the Gryffindor’s glasses were hanging off one ear, completely askew, and he was wearing sweats and only one sock.

Oh, how Draco loved his ridiculous idiot.

“You won’t be needing that, dear,” Narcissa said calmly, red lips twisting upwards. She stood tall and calm, completely unbothered by the wand pointed straight at her face. “I assure you I come in peace.”

Harry blinked, looking a mixture between surprised, confused and utterly horrified, but then hastily dropped his wand again. A deep, deep blush spread over his cheeks as he ducked his head in mortification, and Draco might have swooned at how utterly adorable his soulmate was, were it not for his mother.

So he wrenched his gaze away from Harry and instead fixated his mother, who was still watching Harry with obvious amusement. Draco’s lips twitched. Amusement was good. Amusement he could work with.

“Yes, Mother?” he said, straightening his spine and smoothing down his hair before he, too, stood. “Is something the matter?”

Narcissa’s gaze shifted to Draco, who offered a small smile in response.

She was looking better, he was endlessly grateful to be able to say. Not good, no, not by a long shot; she was too thin, her collarbones too pronounced, her limbs too frail. Her skin was shades and shades paler than it ought to be, less ivory and more ashen, and the contrast of those dark circles hanging underneath her eyes worried Draco. Even her hair had lost its usual sheen.

But, all things considered, better. Healthier. _Happier_ —just like Pansy had said. And, really, that was all that mattered.

“Draco. So good to see you again,” she said, smiling back at him, the one action brightening up her entire face, making her look years and years younger. As though the last four years had never happened, as though she were still the same Narcissa she’d been before the war. Draco didn’t have the words to express how very much he sometimes missed that Narcissa.

He rolled his eyes playfully but didn’t bother supressing the grin that curled across his face. “Yes, Mother, because it’s been _so long_.”

She arched one delicate eyebrow. “Why, we haven’t had a proper conversation in weeks now. You’ve all but moved out of the Manor, you barely visit, your letters couldn’t be any less informative—I think I’m allowed to miss my only son, am I not?”

He rolled his eyes again, crossing his arms. “And that’s why you’ve decided to make a surprise trip to London, is it? Because you’ve missed me so?”

Narcissa scowled at him, but there was no actual irritation in her eyes—quite the opposite. “That, and the fact that Pansy recently informed me my one and only son had finally secured himself the soulmate he’d been pining after for years now _without ever telling me_.”

Draco spluttered, and all of a sudden he was the one whose face was burning, while Harry sported a lopsided grin and his mother—the ruthless _traitor_ —simply looked on with an expression of complete and utter complacency.

“Mother!” he hissed, betrayed.

Narcissa’s tone, however, was the definition of innocent. “Oh, I’m sorry, was that too _straightforward_ for you?” She shook her head, disappointed. “Honestly, Draco, what were you thinking, keeping something like that from your own _mother_. I raised you better than that.”

Say what you will about Narcissa Malfoy, Draco thought with some disgust, but she was the undefeated _master_ of guilt-tripping.

“ _Mother_ ,” he said again, this time nothing more than a tortured groan. He didn’t dare glance over to where Harry stood, silently watching the scene unfold—probably grinning like a moron.

But Narcissa was right; she would never let him live this down. Really, Draco should have known this was coming. Not that that would’ve saved him.

“Don’t you ‘Mother’ me, Draco,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I sat through years and years of listening to your complaints. Every single holiday it was ‘Harry Potter this’ and ‘Harry Potter that’ and ‘oh why won’t he ever notice me’. And now that, years later, you finally got over yourself and confessed, you have the audacity to say you _didn’t think to tell me_? Shame on you, Draco. I’m disappointed.”

_Salazar_ , Draco prayed, face all the while flaming, _kill me now_.

Narcissa might claim she was disappointed, but Draco could find nothing but smug self-satisfaction smeared across his mother’s perfectly wrinkle-free face. And as he finally chanced a glance to where Harry still stood beside him, all hints of the Gryffindor’s previous humiliation gone and replaced instead by a disgustingly endearing beam that only brightened when he caught Draco looking—well.

It was safe to say Narcissa Black-Malfoy was a Slytherin through and through, even decades later.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” she said suddenly. “Introduce me to your soulmate, Draco.”

And just like that, Draco’s humiliation took second place. For when Narcissa’s gaze shifted to Harry, Draco’s eyes followed, and the fact alone that his mother had just called Harry his soulmate made his heart soar. That paired with the adorable smudge of pink currently coating the Gryffindor’s cheeks, and his previous discomfort was all but forgotten.

He could have refused, could have told his mother she was being silly, that she’d met Harry plenty times. Except Draco couldn’t bring himself to feign any annoyance, not when he couldn’t even tear his gaze away from the man in question.

And so, instead, he reached for Harry’s hand, squeezing it once as those tragically green eyes met his, surprised. He smiled in response, then turned to Narcissa and said, “Mother, meet Harry. My soulmate.”

Narcissa’s answering smile held not a smidgeon of smugness or complacency as she inclined her head, and instead was one of complete and utter warmth and love and _pride_. “It’s lovely to finally meet you, Harry. Properly, this time.”

When Draco glanced back over to his boyfriend, the Gryffindor looked stunned, eyes wide as they jumped from Narcissa to Draco and back. For a split second, Draco had the irrational fear he might be overwhelmed; Narcissa was known to oftentimes come on as a bit strong, and Harry hadn’t had the best experiences with the Malfoy family so far. As a matter of fact, the last time he’d seen Narcissa must’ve been directly after the war, during the trials.

But Draco needn’t have worried. For it was at that exact moment that Harry clamped his mouth shut, surprise melting into the sort of look that made Draco’s heart melt, smile easy and kind.

Harry reached out with his free hand to shake Narcissa’s, and he replied, “Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Malfoy. Properly, this time.”

Draco’s smile widened. _Properly_. Yes, that sounded about right.

He only realised he was staring at Harry again when his mother cleared her throat. But he couldn’t find it in himself to be even moderately embarrassed. Instead, Draco squeezed his boyfriend’s hand again, intertwining their fingers for good measure, and then turned to his mother.

“Yes?”

Narcissa was still smiling, but there was something else in her expression as well, something Draco should have noticed earlier. Whatever it was, though, it made his stomach twist in apprehension, and he felt his own smile fade.

Narcissa opened her mouth to reply. But then she paused, and closed it. Glanced between Draco and Harry.

Draco’s smile dropped entirely.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and the switch in the air was a palpable thing.

However, Narcissa only frowned, eyes once again shifting to Harry, as though uncertain whether or not to say anything in front of him.

And just like that Draco knew exactly what the matter was.

“The letter?” he asked a bit breathlessly. “Did he reply?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see Harry’s expression morph into one of confusion. “What letter?”

Before Draco could answer, though, Narcissa answered, “That’s why I came.” She hesitated, looking between Draco and Harry again. “It might be best if we all sit down for this.”

* * *

Self-consciousness was a feeling Harry did not experience very often. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actively felt self-conscious—definitely not since Hogwarts. It wasn’t that he was incredibly self-confident; it was just that, ever since the war, such things as appearance or style had just felt…frivolous. Unnecessary. Why bother worrying about such little things when there were so many _bigger_ things to care about?

However, sitting there in his messy living room on the faded yellow sofa he’d bought from Ikea when he first moved into the apartment, clad in sweatpants, Mrs. Weasley’s maroon Christmas jumper and one sock, hand clasped around that of his boyfriend who—even in a simple pair of trousers and a grey jumper—looked like he’d just fallen out of a magazine, seated across from said boyfriend’s mother, who put muggle supermodels to shame…

Yeah, Harry could admit he felt self-conscious, just this once.

It wasn’t that he felt uncomfortable with Narcissa Malfoy here; on the contrary, Harry found he quite liked the woman. He figured that was just what happened when someone saved your life from a psychopathic snake-man.

Not to mention Harry’s fondness of the woman had doubled, maybe even tripled when she’d admitted Draco had totally _pined_ for him. He’d figured as much, judging by everything he’d heard so far from Pansy and Blaise, but to have actual confirmation from the woman who had raised Draco—Harry would be gloating right now if there weren’t much more pressing matters to be dealt with first.

Pressing matters, like the fact that it seemed his soulmate had written his estranged, jailed, Death Eater father a letter and then conveniently forgotten to tell Harry about it.

If he hadn’t recently found out Draco was his literal soulmate, Harry’d probably be pissed right now.

Instead, though, he repeated his earlier question, “What letter are we talking about here?”

Draco shifted in his seat right beside Harry, practically pressed against his side, and at least had the decency to look guilty as he answered, “I, err, might have written Lucius a letter the other day.”

Harry simply raised an eyebrow.

Draco winced. “I wrote it the day after you…got cursed. Before he was killed, Yaxley told me something about my father. He didn’t specify, just said something about how my father had helped him. He made it sound as though it had something to do with the investigation, as though it were important. For all I knew he was bluffing, just trying to rile me up further. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

The Slytherin wouldn’t meet his eyes as he spoke, almost as though he was genuinely afraid Harry might be angry at him for keeping it a secret. The notion immediately dispelled whatever small kernel of displeasure Harry might’ve still been holding on to, and he gave Draco’s hand a small reassuring squeeze, smiling gently when their eyes met.

Some of the tension in the blond’s shoulders receded at that. He continued, “To be perfectly honest, I don’t remember exactly what I wrote. Mainly I was just angry and wanted answers as to how my father fit into the whole puzzle. Not that I expect him to have actually been of any help.” Draco looked at his mother. “Or am I wrong?”

Narcissa’s lips quirked in displeasure, but she didn’t disagree.

“Your father is a very…prideful man, Draco, as you very well know,” she said softly, cautiously. Wise move, Harry thought as he felt his boyfriend stiffen, jaw clenched. He gripped Draco’s hand tighter. “In his eyes, you don’t deserve his help, not after you renounced the Dark Lord and then proceeded to ignore him for three years. I’m not saying you acted wrong”—she added quickly when Draco opened his mouth to protest, eyes stormy—“but, in Lucius’ opinion, you abandoned him. Therefore, you’ll have a hard time getting him to be of any assistance to you, particularly if it has anything to do with Harry.”

Her eyes were apologetic, but Harry couldn’t help but feel a wave of white-hot disbelief wash over him. Draco had said once that his mother still loved Lucius, even after all he’d done, after how he’d hurt her, hurt _Draco_. How she could sit there and tell her own son his father was too much of a child to help protect him, and then _not_ hate Lucius for it, Harry truly couldn’t understand.

“However,” said Narcissa, expression hard, “something did happen that you should know about. Lucius was threatened.”

Harry’s eyes went wide, and even Draco seemed to forget his anger for a split-second.

“What do you mean ‘threatened’?” he asked, silver eyes narrowed.

“I mean just that,” Narcissa answered. “A message was slipped into his copy of the Daily Prophet a few days ago, telling him that if he told you anything, he’d regret it.”

There was a moment of silence.

Harry didn’t even waste a second thought on the fact that Lucius Malfoy was being provided with his very own copy of the Daily Prophet—money really did rule the world. Instead, his thoughts circled around one question and the one question alone:

“Tell me what?”

Narcissa frowned at her son. “I wish I knew. He wouldn’t tell me anything either, only said it had something to do with a job he’d been tasked with during the war, one I’m guessing he and Yaxley did together. He kept mumbling something about the Order of the Phoenix, too.”

Immediately, Harry’s mind started racing. That made no sense; why would the Order of the Phoenix have anything to do with the maniac currently hell-bent on murdering Harry?

“But,” Narcissa added when Draco once again opened his mouth. She reached out and placed a comforting hand on her son’s knee, saying gently, “You should know, my dear, that your father’s mind is not what it once was. Azkaban…hasn’t been kind to him. Loathe as I am to admit it, these could very well be the ramblings of a mad man—”

“ _No_ ,” Draco interrupted, scowling darkly. “No, that _can’t_ be it. It has to fit into the puzzle somehow. I mean, why would someone go to the trouble of threatening him if he didn’t know something that could be of use to the investigation? There’s got to be something, something that might help identify Yaxley’s accomplice, or tell us where they might be hiding, or how they keep breaking into the allegedly ‘most secure’ locations in the British wizarding world, something to get them imprisoned before they fucking _murder Harry_ —”

“Hey.” Harry lifted his free hand up to cup his boyfriend’s jaw, forcing him to meet his eyes. The Slytherin’s expression was still fiery, but Harry offered him a small reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine, okay? _I’m_ perfectly fine. We don’t need Lucius. We’ll figure it out without him, just like we have everything else.”

Draco’s anger tempered slightly. “But he _knows_ something, information we might _need_ —”

“Allegedly,” replied Harry calmly. “He might, or he might not. Maybe Yaxley’s accomplice is just overly paranoid. You heard your mother; Lucius’ mind isn’t the same as it was before he was incarcerated. Perhaps he did know something once but forgot it over time.” He intertwined their fingers again. “You can’t beat yourself up over this. Lucius isn’t going to tell us anything anyway. The best we can do now is go to Robards with the information we do have, and otherwise stay alert. Okay?”

There was a long, long pause, in which Draco’s eyes flickered across Harry’s face like two silver flames. For a moment Harry wasn’t sure he’d succeeded in convincing the Slytherin, worried Draco might do something rash.

But then, finally, the blond nodded stiffly and averted his eyes, a slight scowl still twisting across his face. “Fine.”

Harry almost sighed in relief, but suppressed the urge, instead looking back at Narcissa, who’d stayed silent during their exchange. Her eyes were still trained on her son, though they snapped up to Harry the moment she caught him looking. And, yes, alright, Harry would be the first to admit he wasn’t always the best at interpreting Malfoy-emotions. His obliviousness regarding Draco’s feelings was a prime example for that.

Yet, looking at Narcissa now, he couldn’t help but think she looked almost…impressed.

He blinked, stunned.

Huh. Who would’ve thought?

Not Harry, that’s for sure.

The corners of her mouth twitched upwards into a smile, but before Harry’s jaw could hit the floor, Narcissa cleared her throat and stood. “Anyway, I really should be heading back to the Manor now. I just felt I should inform you personally of the news.” Her gaze darted back to Harry, and, yes, that was genuine warmth in her eyes. “Harry, I’m so glad you and Draco finally found each other. You two suit each other well, if I do say so myself. Just…take good care of him, will you? He likes to act tough but, sometimes, oftentimes, he needs protecting as well.”

Draco scowled, mumbling something under his breath. “ _Mother_.”

Harry glanced at the man in question, and immediately felt his own expression soften. The steely glint in the Slytherin’s eyes, the determined angle of his jaw, the sharp edges of his face—but then also the way Draco curled up against him, the way their hands rested between them, interlocked, the way his silvery hair framed his face like a halo.

He focused his attention back on Narcissa and nodded resolutely. “I will.” And Harry found he’d never meant anything so sincerely as he did that.

Well, save for one thing.

And so, when, after pulling her son in for a long hug, Narcissa disappeared in a burst of green flames, Harry pressed a kiss to his boyfriend’s temple before laying his head back on Draco’s shoulder and whispering, “Love you.”

Because, truly, there was nothing he had ever meant more.

~~~

Harry would have been perfectly content with simply staying on the couch and cuddling all day, thank you very much.

However, the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

He’d just shut his eyes what felt like minutes ago when there was a loud knock on the door, effectively wrenching Harry from whatever half-slumber he’d been suspended in until seconds before. Draco, who’d been busy creating a list of events leading up to Yaxley’s murder, jerked so violently Harry almost fell face-first off the couch since he’d been using the Slytherin’s lap as a makeshift pillow.

“What the _fuck_ ,” the Slytherin hissed, silver eyes wide as he grabbed for his wand.

Harry sat up, too, his own wand in hand, and they both went very still, waiting. But then there was another knock, accompanied by a voice, muffled through the wood but still very much familiar.

“Harry? Harry, I know you’re in there, Ron told me you’d be. Please open up, I just…want to talk.”

Harry dropped his wand again and blinked, confused. _Ginny_?

“Harry, please. I’ll make it quick, I promise. I just—” Her voice broke, and Harry could feel a sudden burst of worry wash over him. “I just need to talk to you.”

He glanced over at Draco, who still had his wand raised, expression hard. It was obvious he wasn’t exactly pleased by Ginny’s sudden and unannounced arrival—neither was Harry, to be perfectly honest. But when their eyes met, the Slytherin sighed, motioning for the door.

“Go on. It’s fine. I very much doubt she came here to murder you.”

Harry grinned slightly. “Oh really? You sure about that, Mr. Bodyguard?”

Draco snorted and rolled his eyes, and although he was evidently trying hard to look annoyed, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards effectively betrayed him. “ _No_. But someone needs to get her to leave, and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to do it.”

Harry made a face, splaying his hand over his heart dramatically. “And here I thought you were supposed to be protecting me. Turns out I was the sacrificial lamb all along.”

Draco shook his head incredulously and threw a cushion at Harry; (thankfully his Auror training had prepared him for situations like this, and he managed to dodge it just in time).

“Salazar, just get the bloody door already, you menace.”

Harry laughed, but did as he was told, a grin still twisting loosely across his face as he reached the door and pulled it open.

His grin dropped almost immediately.

“Ginny?” he said, alarmed. “Shit, are you alright? What happened?”

Ginny looked up, brown eyes wide and rimmed with red, and one moment they were standing a few feet apart, Ginny in front of the door, Harry in the doorway, and the next she’d flung herself into his arms, sobbing as she buried her face into his chest.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” she sniffled, and Harry stood frozen to the spot, stunned by the sudden turn of events. “I didn’t mean to, I swear. I didn’t, I was just angry, and hurt, and I didn’t understand why…it…it wasn’t _fair_. It _isn’t_. All those years—and then—and _now_ —” She let loose another shoulder-heaving sob, and Harry realised with no shortness of horror that he was supposed to be _comforting_ her right now.

“Err,” he said eloquently, awkwardly patting her back. “How about…how about you come in, yeah? Come in, sit down, maybe have a cup of tea. Then you can tell me exactly what’s wrong. Okay?”

Ginny’s sobs stopped for a moment, and she looked up at him. But instead of the desperation Harry had glimpsed in those first few seconds before she’d bodily thrown herself at him, there was something much harder there now, something borderline…angry.

“Is _he_ here?”

Harry furrowed his brow helplessly. “Err…he?”

Ginny looked at him almost accusatorily. “Yes _he_. Him. Malfoy.”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted even higher. “Yeah? Ginny, you know perfectly well Head Auror Robards—”

He was interrupted by a snort. Only it wasn’t light-hearted like Draco’s had been, and instead much more bitter, more derisive. Just like that, Ginny pulled away again, stepping back as she folded her arms and glared up at Harry.

“Don’t you ‘Head Auror Robards’ me, Harry,” she said coldly, and Harry felt like he was getting emotional whiplash here. Had Ginny’s moods been this erratic when they’d been dating? He didn’t think so.

“Ginny,” he said wearily, “can you please just tell me what’s going on? Please? If you do, I might be able to help y—”

“ _Help_ me?” Ginny shook her head, looking at him down her nose despite being at least two heads shorter, as though he’d just singlehandedly murdered her entire family. “I think you’ve done enough, thank you very much. Honestly, I don’t even recognise you anymore.”

Harry blinked, utterly stunned.

Wait _, what_?

“Look, clearly something’s bothering you,” Harry began, forcing himself to remain calm. Inside, he could feel a surge of irritation swelling in his chest, but he pushed it away, pushed it down. Now was not the time. “If you could just _tell_ me what’s wrong—”

Ginny opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, a familiar voice said from behind Harry, “What’s going on here?”

Immediately, both Harry and Ginny’s eyes snapped to Draco, who stood behind Harry, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he took in Ginny.

He must have been alerted by Ginny’s shouting. Usually Harry would be grateful for his soulmate’s presence, if only as emotional backup, but all it took was one glance in between the Slytherin and the youngest Weasley and he knew proverbial shit was about to hit the fan. Ginny had never thought very highly of Draco, Harry knew that, and the latter barely ever concealed the particularly strong dislike he in turn harboured for her.

Harry opened his mouth, already prepared to play the peacekeeper. But before he could, Ginny spoke first, her eyes filled with blatant animosity as she glowered right back at the blond.

“That’s none of your business, Malfoy, so kindly fuck off, will you?”

Harry inhaled a sharp breath, startled by the blunt hostility.

But Draco’s eyes only narrowed, both his glare and tone as cold as ice as he hissed, “Funny, I was about to say the same thing.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” replied Ginny coolly. “I don’t know what you did to make Harry tolerate you, but it’s not going to fool me, _Death Eater_.”

Harry’s brows snapped together, and he didn’t need to glance at Draco to know his whole expression had hardened. “ _Ginny_! Why the hell would you say that, you _know_ —”

“I _know_ only that he has you wrapped around his little finger!” she snapped, glare shifting to him. “Harry, two months ago you _hated_ him, and now you’re fucking living together. That’s _not normal_!”

“So what,” he said, and he couldn’t hold back the cold anger seeing into his tone, “you came here just to insult Draco and me?”

She huffed angrily. “No, I came to _apologise_! But since you so clearly don’t have any intention of hearing me out, since you obviously care more about _him_ now than the rest of us…I guess there’s no use, is there?”

“He _has_ been hearing you out, in case you haven’t noticed,” Draco snapped, his anger apparent in the slight tremor to his voice, which not even his cold mask of indifference could hide. “Much more so than you deserve.”

Ginny sent him a death-glare, but then turned back to Harry. Her eyes were still steely and full of anger, but when she spoke again, there was something else in her tone, something desperate. “Do you love me, Harry?”

Harry very nearly choked on air, and he could feel Draco’s entire body tense beside him, unadulterated anger thrumming through the air as a heavy, heavy silence encompassed the hallway.

“Ginny,” Harry began carefully. “Ginny, I’ve always loved you and I always will. But…not in the way you want me to. Look, you’re like the little sister I never had—”

“Little sister,” Ginny repeated, and the fact that he couldn’t read her expression worried Harry more than her previous harshness or unrepressed anger ever could.

Another moment of silence ticked by, and another, and then she nodded stiffly.

Her eyes shifted from Harry to Draco, and she jerked her chin in his direction. “And him?”

Harry’s heart actually missed a beat as a wave of such immense dread crashed over him that his head began to spin.

She knew. She knew she knew _she knew_.

How? How could she possibly know, when so far only Hermione, Ron, Pansy, Blaise and Narcissa had been told? And Nic, but Harry doubted Ginny and he were friends. Ron and Hermione wouldn’t have told her, not without asking Harry for permission first, not without _telling_ him they had. They wouldn’t abuse his trust like that.

However, as he glanced once over his shoulder only to find Draco looking deathly pale, Harry’s thoughts came to an abrupt pause. The Slytherin’s mouth was set in a hard line, and his entire body was tense to the point that he looked like a statue. But all it took was one look at his eyes, filled with an ever-churning mixture of dread, panic and… _fear_.

All of a sudden, Harry found himself reminded of something Narcissa had said earlier, of the way she’d smiled sadly at her scowling son and said, ‘ _He likes to act tough but, sometimes, oftentimes, he needs protecting as well_ ’.

Draco had done enough protecting this past month, had saved Harry more times than he could count, both physically and emotionally. The least he could do now was return the favour.

And so Harry squared his jaw and turned back around to face Ginny. Her brown eyes were already boring into his, colder than he’d seen them in a long, long time.

“Yeah, actually,” he said. “I do.”

Silence.

Harry could feel the weight of two pairs of eyes on him, but he didn’t let himself glance back at Draco, not yet, not now, not when Ginny’s expression had turned downright murderous, her nostrils flaring as her glare jumped from Harry to Draco and back.

Then she nodded again, pursing her lips. “Fine. You know what? You two can have each other,” she hissed, voice laced with venom. “Apparently, you fit together so well, isn’t that right? Just don’t blame me when shit hits the fan.”

And before anyone could say anything else, she turned on her heel and stalked right back down the hallway, never looking back once.

The tension in the air remained, even with Ginny long gone, and Harry exhaled shakily, only then daring to look at Draco. Draco, who was already staring at him with wide eyes, almost as though he couldn’t quite believe that had just happened, couldn’t believe Harry had admitted he loved him.

And for some reason, that hurt him far more than any of Ginny’s cold glares and barbed-wire words ever could.

He gently closed the door to the empty hallway, then turned to fully face his boyfriend, who was still staring at him. Harry forced a small smile, even though his heart still thundered in his chest, beating wildly and at the same time feeling awfully constricted, as though Ginny had reached into his ribcage and squeezed it with all that cold anger he’d found in her typically so warm brown eyes.

He reached out and clasped both the Slytherin’s hands in his.

Draco swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was uncharacteristically frail. “She’s going to tell the world, isn’t she?”

Harry opened his mouth to disagree, to dismiss the worry, the fear in his soulmate’s wide grey eyes. But he couldn’t lie to Draco. Couldn’t, and wouldn’t, not today, not tomorrow, not ever if he could help it.

And so he simply stepped forward and draped his arms around the blond, pulling him into a tight hug. “Whatever happens, we’ll manage. Remember, we endure—you said so yourself. Right?”

There was a slight pause, and Harry worried Draco would stay silent, push his fear and worry down and let it fester like Harry knew he’d done in the past. But then eventually the Slytherin nodded, wrapping his arms around him as well. “Right.”

And Harry prayed that wasn’t a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm sorry)


End file.
